Devotion
by VitaSeptima
Summary: Harry Pearce has alway lived by his own set of commandments. At least that was the case until a certain analyst stumbled into his section. It was never supposed to happen, but somehow events moved beyond his control, and now Harry is left to contemplate how he has managed to break every single rule he has ever set down.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N – It all belongs to Kudos and the BBC. I'm only shading in some of Harry's thoughts._

Chapter 1 - Life in a different direction

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He wondered if there had ever been a time when he had not loved her. Rationally, in the deeper recesses of his mind, he knew there had been such a time. Once, before the dawn of man. A rueful smile played upon his lips as he leant back against the unforgiving concrete. The light outside the small window grew faint, the cell growing dark along with his hopes. He shifted on the unyielding mattress of the cot, pulling his jacket tighter as the air chilled around him. Out of habit, he moved to loosen his tie, but they had relieved it from him earlier, along with his belt. Inconsequential losses compared to what was really at stake.

Should the unthinkable happen, he could carry on, he reasoned, as he had done so many times before. He had lived a life before he met her. Many lives in fact. Committed deeds that he would never tell her, could never tell anyone, locked in the darkest part of his secret soul. Atrocities that he would not even admit to himself.

It was all about the endgame, and she had become ensnared in it. Because he knew the game, he had taken a chance and called their bluff, earning a penalty and now he sat off the field. He had made the play without quite thinking through the consequences. Instinct had overridden reason - passion would do that to a man. There had been no other choice, they had covered every angle. The problem was, he had no idea what was going on. There had been no contact with the outside world except for the brief visit from Adam. He only knew that there was a murder charge laid against him, along with possible collusion of torture. He could not fight them alone. He curled his fingers in an angry fist; he would not be out manoeuvred by Oliver Mace of all people. Mace was weak, merely emboldened by the atmosphere of the club. He smiled, his fingers remembering the flute of the glass in his hand, the adrenaline rush as he broke it on the table, the utter satisfaction of the crimson slash appearing across Mace's pristine white shirt. They had assumed he would roll over to protect her, join their league of the unconscionable, but he would not go down without a fight, and if he went down he would take everyone with him. A man like Mace would never understand the higher emotions, honour, integrity, sacrifice. He had offered himself up for her. He would do it again. There had been other women in the past, decisions made under the cloud of lust, but somehow they all paled in comparison.

His heart sat heavy in his chest and he inhaled a weary breath, nostrils filling with the odour of disinfectant unable to mask the stale smell urine. Closing his eyes, he turned his head, wondering if he could still find the whisper of her scent lingering on him. Barely there, hidden in a memory, along with all the other pieces of her he had accumulated over the years and stored away.

 _Whatsoever is_ lovely, _whatsoever is pure._

The only thing he could control was his mind, but he let go of it at that moment, uncorking the stopper of time, allowing thoughts of her to flow over him. The walls of his cell fell away, allowing him a sweet measure of escape. "Oh Ruth," he whispered her name to the silent stones standing guard over him. "How did it all unwind so fast?" She would know, she always knew. She would say he had only himself to blame. He lay down on the cot, muscles aching from confinement and threw his arm over his eyes. How many times had he warned others? The was nothing left but to recount every rule he had let slide. Never let it get personal, never get involved, never take work home, never get caught. He had broken all of his commandments.

With an inward looking eye, he peeled back the layers of memory, wondering if he could distill it down to one moment, one decision that he had made, the tipping point that had set his life off on a different course. For, in the beginning, she had been someone else, and so had he, and the events that had shaped them were to meant to have unfolded in a very different manner.

.

The sharp tap of Harry's heels echoed off the walls of the corridor with a military elegance. Nails digging into his palm, he clenched his fist tight, his jaw held rigid in an effort not to spit out the name.

Tessa.

Oh, how he loathed that woman. A hidden corner of his mind, the darker part that thrived on intrigue and subterfuge, admired her duplicity, the sheer audacity of running fake agents and pocketing the cash. Brilliant, really. He had seen it before with George Blair, but he had never expected to see it again. Especially on his watch. As he thought of her, his anger grew, and he held onto it with a fist so tight it threatened to spill out between his fingers. Distraction had been his downfall. He had been so bloody busy blocking her manoeuvres to get his job that he had failed to notice her backroom shenanigans. Thank God for Zoe. He had pegged the young officer as a bit of a soft touch, but she had proved her metal. She had come to him and confessed Tessa's treachery showing a display of loyalty and integrity that had pleased him immensely. With uncharacteristic graciousness, he had been willing to let Tessa leave of her own accord; she was a senior officer, after all, a stellar career, once the leader of a section herself. He had been prepared to invoke the code, the special dispensation for a colleague gone astray in the field, but she had overplayed her hand, poking at his most guarded wound: Bill Crombie. Never dig up what has been buried. There had been no choice but to call Tessa's bluff, and though he had silently cheered at having her publicly dragged off the Grid, he now regretted the fallout. By outing her in such a spectacularly open fashion, he had alerted the higher ups that she had been pulling one over on him and by extension, the Service. Meetings were convened, talk of inquiry bandied about, but he had calmly met all accusations with the stoic reassurance that his section was clean. The scrutiny was the price he had to pay to get rid of Tessa once and for all.

Unfortunately, the price tag also included continued interference from upstairs.

He had been given the names of three intelligence analysts, all from GCHQ and all of them, he would wager, informants. It was, no doubt, the bright idea of some bureaucrat sitting behind a mahogany desk. Only a half-wit paper pusher would think of foisting a plant on Harry's department. You can't spy on a spy. He would play their game. He would hire one of their "analysts" and wear them down until they went running from Section D. He had only to find the weakest candidate. And once they were gone, he would replace them with an officer of his own.

A metal door came into view, and he transferred the file folder he was carrying from on hand to the other. His fingers rose to the knot in his tie, giving it a cursory straightening, after which he moved them down to tug at the bottom of his waistcoat. If anyone had ever told him in his youth that he would be wearing a waistcoat he would have laughed in their face. Now, he understood the usefulness of the sartorial veneer of civility, it bespoke a certain stodginess, lulling people into an assumption about his character, that left them defenceless when he went for the jugular. Taking a deep breath, he brought his anger under control, or as much as he could, hiding it beneath a tight smile and tilt to his head. A glimpse at his watch told him he had kept the candidate waiting twenty minutes. Enough time to instill a decent amount of dread. Alone in the confines of an austere meeting room – no company, no contact, no coffee. The corner of his mouth twitched in a crooked grin as he noted the similarities between interviews and interrogations.

He swung open the door, the handle bouncing off the wall with a resounding bang, the sudden noise having the desired effect on the occupant of the room. Startled, she sat up in her chair, turning to find out the source of the sound. Seeing Harry, she half rose from her seat struggling to determine if the situation dictated that she sand or sit. In the end, she stood up as he approached.

"Harry Pearce," he announced, the authority of his voice invading every corner of the room.

"Ruth Evershed."

A friendly smile lit up her face as she held out her hand to him. He ignored it as he stepped around the table, leaving her outstretched hand to hang in mid air, selfconsciously useless. She tried to cover up her awkwardness by brushing her hand against her skirt.

He undercut her greeting by dropping her file on the table, the volume of papers landing with a thud, the white label clearly stating her name in full view.

"I know who you are." ,

His eyes swept over her appearance, clinically sorting through and filing away details. Dark hair, medium length, short in stature, no heels, brown skirt, patterned blouse, not frumpy but not tailored either. She was young. Not young in years but radiating that youthful spirit of eagerness he so often found irritating. How he hated interviews. He had once done a stint in recruitment and had rather enjoyed the experience, but years and experience now left him little patience with the whole process. He drew a breath through his teeth and sat down.

She followed suit, her spirit slightly deflated.

"So, Miss Evershed, tell me," he opened the file, avoiding direct eye contact with her, "Why do you want to work for Five?"

"Well, I'm looking for a challenge and I think MI5 would offer that."

"Do you not enjoy your work at GCHQ?"

"Oh yes, I do. I mean, I did. I've found recently though that my assignments have become quite repetitive."

"Am I to gather then that once you are bored with us you will move on?"

"I wouldn't think that would happen."

"Why not?"

"I would think each operation would have its own unique variables. It would be more than combing through the same transcripts day in and day out."

"There isn't any glamour in this job."

"I'm well aware of that." Her seeming eagerness to please moved her to the edge of her seat.

"There is still a lot of intelligence sorting. Surveillance, monitoring, tedious stuff. Some days border on the mundane."

"Better to be bored in London than bored in Cheltenham." She gave him a nervous smile.

Ignoring her attempt at humour, he flipped through the folder. "I see from your training assessment that your intellectual scores are stellar."

"Thank you." Her spine became a little straighter, head held a little higher, her pride in her accomplishments shining through.

"But your other scores, regrettably, are quite appalling."

"Oh." Deflation. She was well aware of her shortcomings.

He tapped his finger on the page, pointing to a number. "Tell me Miss Evershed, we're you actually facing the target when you took your marksmanship test?"

She looked at him for a moment, her mouth forming into a delicate circle as she composed her thoughts. This woman had probably cruised through most of her life, and GCHQ for that matter, on her superior intelligence but that was not enough to buy her a pass in his section. He made of show of writing down a note in her file, pausing when she spoke.

"I'm not sure what opportunities I would have as an analyst to shoot a gun."

She was right but he was not about to admit it.

"Sometimes we are called upon to step outside our ordinary roles. The board is constantly shifting."

"But you just said the job involved a lot of tedium."

His tongue pressed against his teeth. Nothing got past her, she was sharp, he would give her that and not afraid to speak her mind.

"Do you consider yourself a loyal person, Miss Evershed?"

Once again, the question seemed to have caught her off guard.

"Yes, I do."

"Because that is what I value above all else." He probed her with his eyes, searching, waiting for a crack that he could exploit.

"I'm loyal to my country. I believe I have a duty to serve it."

"Good answer." He let the smile of triumph stay on her face for half a second before he finished the sentence. "If you're a politician. Those words are all very noble in the world of black and white, but here in the world of grey it could cost you your life."

"I'm not sure how my life would be endangered at a desk."

"My question is, to what lengths are you willing to go?"

"Do you mean ethically?"

There was an almost imperceptible crack to her voice, perhaps a hint that she was dealing with her own moral dilemma.

"Or personally."

"Are you asking me if I'm willing to sacrifice my life for my country?"

"Well, that's a bit much to ask of an analyst, isn't it?"

Her brow creased at his circular questioning and before she could reply, he launched into a different subject.

"You understand that this is merely a secondment. It does not necessarily mean a permanent position."

Her eyes closed as she drew her bottom lip between her teeth. "Yes, I understand.

There was no shell to this one. Everything completely open. How long would it take to break her? Four weeks? For the first time, he took a proper look at her face, running his eyes over the faint blush of her cheeks and the red bow of her mouth. Throughout his career, he had studied the faces of many women, sinners and saints and everything in between, but he couldn't quite decide if the one in front of him was beautiful or merely a collection of unique pieces. Until that was, he looked in her eyes. In the stark whiteness of the room, they stared back at him, an unnerving blue, and he found it hard to look at them directly. Out of the sheer need to dominate, he kept his eyes locked on hers and to his relief, she lowered her gaze after a few seconds. He had to admit he was intrigued - she was a bit of a puzzle. A strange combination of defiance and vulnerability. He tapped his pen thoughtfully.

"Thank you, Miss Evershed."

He straightened up the papers in the file, effectively dismissing her.

"I don't think-" She placed her hand on the table, shifting forward, trying to get his attention. "I don't think we've fully discussed all the skills that I have to offer the department." She gestured to the folder, a worried look on her face, afraid that the interview was concluding before she could fully state her case.

"I'll be making my decision shortly."

He closed the folder with a definitive slap. He stood, his motion causing her to rise at the same time, her body language still flustered and unsure, a hint of resignation to the set of her shoulders. Taking a few steps around the table, he held out his hand. There was a moment of wariness as she studied him before she held out her hand in return. Her hand was small and warm in his. He closed his fingers around hers, delicate little bones that he could easily crush. A genuine smile crossed his face. This was the one. She wouldn't be gone in four weeks. She would be gone in three.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - Made Great Olympus Tremble

The secret to success in any war of attrition is patience. Wear down one's enemy bit by bit. Subtle incursions, blockades, anything to undermine the will to carry on, all through the use tactics varied and unassuming. Harry had the time, the resources and the patience; with minimal effort, he would expose Ruth Evershed and rid her from his section.

Taken in isolation, no one would be able to assign any underlying meaning to the events surrounding her first day on the Grid. It had been an innocent oversight on his part that he had failed to mention the briefing time to her, but really, she was an analyst, if she couldn't find out the briefing time how well did that bode for her tenure in the section. Her ill timed entrance, juggling files, seemingly overwhelmed, accompanied by her obvious opening statement had afforded him no end of opportunity. How could he resist a joke at her expense, with the possible added bonus of undermining her credibility? He had thought his words rather clever but it had only earned an eye roll from Zoe, rather akin to his daughter as a teenager. In all honesty, there had been no time for introductions, they were in the middle of an important operation. Besides, why get to know her. And he may have overlooked informing Tom that she was starting. Didn't his Section Chief have more important matters to deal with? All in all, he was rather pleased with his first few minor assaults. Surely in time, these missteps would wear her down.

It would seem though that none of these events had dampened her ardour for sharing information, for moments ago, she had flown at the glass of the briefing room, tapping on the window like a bird. Papers in hand, positively brimming with information, she had entered the room smiling ear to ear. Tom had looked at him, and Harry had only shrugged his shoulders. He had not voiced his suspicions about her to his Section Chief. Hopefully, she would crash and burn without her duplicity ever having come to light.

Of course, unearthing an Algerian agent that had turned up at Scotland Yard was immensely valuable, but he would only admit that to himself. The team had quickly vacated the room eager to act on the information, leaving him to stand at the table, looking down at the printouts. Annoyingly, she had decided not to follow the team but remained standing next to his shoulder, exuding an air of expectation. Let her wait. He made a show of examining the papers in front of him. He still retained a healthy command of the language to study the French one, but the article from the Algerian paper was completely indecipherable. She, of course, was fluent in both languages. The aura of optimism that emanated from her was palatable. He closed his eyes but no matter how hard he tried he could not blot out one fact. This creature had hacked into the French Secret Service database. Damn. They had actually sent him a beyond decent analyst. He tapped his fingers on the table, schooling his expression back from his initial surprise, reordering his thoughts on how to handle this woman. It might be tactically prudent to make limited use of her skills, but at the moment he found her presence rather cloying. Perhaps if he extended the silence long enough, she might take it as a hint to leave. A second ticked by, then two. Apparently, not. He spoke as he shuffled the papers.

"Is there anything else?"

It was a leading question; he was, in fact, referring to any other information regarding Ibn Khaldun, but she gave him an expectant half smile indicating that she wanted something else. Ah, she was searching for the balm of the uninitiated. Validation. He would not give it to her. Withholding praise, one more weapon in his arsenal. He gathered up the documents and stepped away from the table. She stepped with him, positioning herself in his path.

"I just wanted to say I hope I wasn't out of line."

"With what?"

"My comment yesterday. About the Home Office. I didn't really mean it. First day nerves and all."

It was on the tip of his tongue to assure her that he too had on many occasions wanted the Home Office to bugger off, but he held back. It could all be a trap, a supposed private conversation where he defamed the Home Office, an admission that would come back to haunt him. He had tipped his hand enough when he had agreed with her yesterday. Never reveal more than was strictly necessary.

"A word of advice, Miss Evershed. In our line of work, it is always wise to keep one's thoughts close to one's chest."

He had no idea why he was giving her any pointers. Then again, it might serve to give her pause for thought and stem any information she might leak. If indeed she was a mole.

"Of course." She dipped her head and lowered her voice, a touch of a conspiratorial smile on her face as she leaned in close to him. "I am from GCHQ."

Pulling his head back, he ran an assessing eye over her, taking the time to inspect her outfit. A vest covered in spiralling circles and a necklace that looked like it had the tooth of some prehistoric fish. If he ever wanted to distract the enemy, he would send her out. Wardrobe choices aside, he had no time to humour her.

"Other than that, I hope everything is satisfactory."

The comment was meant to be a dismissal, and he took another step toward the door, only for her to once again impede his progress.

"I was wondering about the location of my desk."

He narrowed his eyes at her, annoyed not only by her request but by the fact she did not seem to be intimidated by him. He would have to fix that.

"What about it?"

"If it was closer to the technical suite and the printers, it would save me time running back and forth. More efficient."

Her work station had been placed at its specific location for one reason; it was in the direct line of sight from his office. Granted, he couldn't see what was on her terminal but it was important that he always knew her exact whereabouts, it would make easier to narrow down any potential channels of communication. The location also had the added benefit of being off to one side, thus forcing her to sit alone on a solitary island, while the other stations were grouped together. Fewer chances for socialising that way.

"I can't do anything about that until another desk becomes available."

A frown of disappointment crossed her face as she digested his words. He cleared his throat as a subtle signal that it was time for her to move on. Either she hadn't heard it or didn't catch the signal, for she remained solidly in his path. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, almost afraid to continue.

"Anything else?"

"I need a new desk lamp."

"I beg your pardon." For a moment, he thought she might be speaking in some sort of code.

"The light on my desk is broken," she spoke slowly. "I need a new one."

His mouth parted slightly, annoyed that she would bring such a trivial request to his attention. Why would he even remotely care about her desk lamp? He ran the bloody section for God's sake. He wasn't part of the maintenance crew.

"I suggest you take that up with Miss Buxton. She can requisition one for you."

She nodded.

"If that's everything..." Again another dismissal.

With a small nod, she rocked forward on her toes and spun around, launching herself towards the door. As she left the room, the faint sound of her skirt swished behind her. Perhaps he could step up his assaults, make her tenure even shorter. Harry let out a long breath. A malfunctioning desk lamp; why hadn't he thought of that? No, that would have been too obvious. His eyes fell to the papers in his hand. She was clever. It was documented in her files but he had not bargained for the scope of it in actuality. And he couldn't remember the last time he had heard the rustle of a skirt. But surely he could find another analyst just as capable, and the rustle of one skirt was the same as another. It was not enough to swerve him from his plan. He only needed to bide his time and wait to make a move.

A week later, the opportunity presented itself. He would freeze her out. Literally.

Harry blew into the hollow of his hands as he perched on the edge of his desk, regretting that he had not thought to bring in his gloves. His eyes swept over his all but deserted domain. Colin had advised him to shut down all non-essential services in an effort to thwart the next attempted hack on their system - and heating was one of those services. One by one, his staff had succumbed to the chill, moving off to find warmth in other parts of the building. But not her. She had steadfastly remained at her desk. He supposed he should be grateful for her dedication, but it only left him irritated. She sat at her desk wrapped in a ridiculous white coat. Silly woman, didn't she know that spooks wore black. Perhaps it was better that she wasn't wearing black for then she would have resembled what Harry had come to think of her as; a spider, with a web of information. It was all very suspect, how she acquired her information, and he theorised that she was being supplied by an outside source. He had no idea where the strands of her web were tethered; Whitehall, Six, the JIC, he only knew that he did not want to be the insect ensnared in it. He had instructed the team not to share anything with her, but somehow she had formed an alliance with Sam. Well, Sam was new too, it made sense that they would gravitate towards each other. But that still left him to wonder what she could be up to. The longer he stared at the analyst, the more her presence irked him, as if she were mocking him.

He pushed himself off the desk and walked onto the Grid, his irritation carefully hidden beneath his overcoat. Keeping his tone light, he approached her workstation.

"You don't have to stay here and suffer." His voice was congenial, but his smile did not quite reach his eyes.

"It doesn't bother me." she remarked offhandedly, keeping her head down.

"You could always find another station."

"I'm perfectly fine here."

The frost of her words lowered the temperature of the Grid by another degree. She was intelligent, not insensitive, she knew that she was been left out. He would have to be careful not to over play his hand. There was a momentary twinge as he admitted he might be abusing her talents, that her intelligence would be better used in tracking down the hacker, but she was an outsider, an unknown quantity, still smelling of GCHQ. To her, it was all about the world of cyber communications with no sense of the stakes involved in being a real spy. He had lost communication with two agents in the field; lives were at stake. They were vulnerable enough without having her leak information to whomever she worked for. She was a desk spook, living in comfort. Besides, The breach of their system was a reflection on Five and by extension a reflection on him. He could not let it be known how dire the situation was. As well as protecting the service, he needed to protect his reputation. Each incursion drove closer to exposing their core. He needed to deflect her from any weakness.

"What are you working on?"

As she looked up at him, the massive white collar of her coat framed her face, her hair dark against the trim, making her eyes an even icier blue.

"The phrase that you told me to look into."

His mouth twitched. The phrase he had assigned her was merely a taunt by the hacker, misdirection, no doubt, the need for the offender to appear more intelligent than they were in reality. He had dismissed her from the briefing on a fool's errand, giving a child a task to occupy its time and keep it out of trouble, but apparently, she had not taken it as such. Curious as to what she could have possibly done with such little information, he reached down to the paper she was working on. She covered it with her hand.

"I haven't quite puzzled it out yet."

True to form she was stuck on the logistics of language, looking for meaning where there was none. She was bluffing, he could tell. The finger of blame pointed squarely at Blaney and his SMF crew, it was only a matter of time before he slipped up. Zoe was embedded at the school, Danny was undercover as a reporter. The noose was tightening. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her such, but he held back and decided to play along.

"You said yourself, it was a threat."

"But why this particular passage."

"A person of a certain education?"

"Certainly knowledge of the Iliad," she agreed. "And Zeus." Leaning her elbow on the desk, she cradled her chin in her hand, a wistful look crossing her face. "It's a shame, really, that there are no modern day gods."

"A number of religions might disagree with you."

"No, I mean like the Greek gods. Full of faults and transgressions. Hubris, jealousy, lust. Feet of clay."

Harry nudged against her desk and hitched his leg up to partially sit on the edge, inexplicably drawn into the conversation.

"We don't need them anymore."

"They served a purpose, didn't they?"

"To explain the workings of the world."

"But they also enacted our baser tendencies. Perhaps we wouldn't be in the predicament we are now if we could live through them."

He tilted his head at her, trying to remember the last time he had held such a conversation of the Grid. The talk was usually of operations, politics, dilemmas. There was never time for the debating other subjects, such as the need for Greek divinities, let alone someone of intelligence to debate it with.

"I'm sure the ancients still possessed their share of greed and aggression," he asserted.

"Yes, I suppose we moderns have nothing on starting a war over a beautiful face."

She flashed him a quick smile, her face lighting up as a result, and he found himself, as he had done in her interview, assessing the merits of her countenance.

"Was it really a war over a woman? he postulated, "Or was she merely an excuse?"

Her nose crinkled for a moment as she thought about his theory. "You're probably right, it's always about land and resources, isn't it? Or power, or revenge." She paused, her eyes growing distant as she reflected on the last word.

"What?" he prodded.

"Nothing." She moved the papers around on her desk, avoiding his eyes.

"Each god has his day." Harry eased himself from off her desk.

"If it is convenient that there be gods, then let us believe there are," she quoted to him.

"What's that from?"

"Ovid. Or my corruption thereof."She looked directly at him. "I suppose gods disappear because no one believes in them anymore."

Her eyes seem to see straight through him. Or maybe he was reading too much into her gaze. The blueness of her eyes still had the capacity to unnerve him.

Whether she had intended to or not, her words had found a crack in his armour and he couldn't help but feel she was making an allusion to his power. Wasn't that the fear of every leader - to lose the faith of his troops. He struggled with that every day - the wrong decision, a miscalculated move, any of it could undermine his authority. He looked at her intently, trying to divine her meaning. Was she playing a game with him? No, he had already come to the conclusion that she did not possess the capacity for manipulation. That was for more seasoned players. But she knew something, and he dreaded to think to whom she might report his weakness. He shifted his posture, straightening to his full height while he flexed his shoulders under the bulk of his black overcoat. This was his territory, he had the advantage. He was being paranoid, but that was part of his job.

"Yes, well, we best turn our energies to solving the current crisis." Giving her a tight smile of dismissal, he turned and walked back to his office.

A bird, a spider, or a mole, whatever she was, he couldn't let himself be distracted by pleasant conversation. It would never do to let down the gate and invite her in; after all, it had lead to defeat for the Trojans.

.

The alarms abruptly stopped, silenced by the click of a mouse found across the city in the room of a teenage boy. Chaos had ceased and order was again returned to the Grid. Cleopatra's voice broke over the comms. The agents were safe.

Harry slowly turned his gaze to the palpable crackle of intellectual energy that stood across from him. Fighting a smile, slightly embarrassed, she looked at him from under lowered lashes, the blushing hint of triumph on her cheeks. Her tenacity in researching the phrase had paid off, he would give her that, but one battle did not a victory make. He still didn't trust her. He would make use of her talents but he would not cede any ground. He still had time on his side.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - Whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely

How many weeks had it been? Well past the four he had initially projected. From what he could ascertain, there were no leaks, only incursions and that they could handle. Scaling back his measures, he did not go out of his way to make things harder for her, but he did not necessarily make life easier. She blithely carried on, invariably chipper, a condition that he suspected would soon be drummed out of her. Until that time came, he would use her. She remained at her desk on the periphery of the Grid, his eyes invariably drawn to her station; a precautionary measure, he told himself. Her head was often hidden by her monitor as she industriously assimilated information.

Matters resting at a stalemate, he carried on, entrenched as it were, waiting for her to make a mistake.

There were more pressing issues on the Grid that required his attention; the imminent collapse of a national bank being one of them. On that morning, the scope of his focus was turned to Danny Hunter. As far as Harry was concerned, the young officer was still branded with the mark of embezzlement,; so it was with a certain satisfaction that he had called Danny in at the crack of dawn. Knowing that Danny had been out drinking the night before, Harry raised his voice a little bit louder and smiled a little bit wider at the sight of the young man sitting at the briefing table, looking like death warmed over. Lesson learned. Drinking during an op meant not drinking. It was imperative that an agent learn how to hold his liquor or he would be a soft touch for the enemy, or worse let his cover slip.

The door to the briefing room slid open and Ruth swept in with her usual air of enthusiasm, a condition that Harry had come to associate with a juicy bit of intelligence. She struggled out of her white coat and sat in a chair. A bank in Lugano, impenetrable but possessing a hotel suite for entertaining. Swiss banks, Russian money, Bowman's traders - all of them somehow connected. Bleary eyed, Danny waxed on about the finer details of money laundering. Bank notes shifting, coming together, then disappearing, all of it as elusive as a cloud. Beautiful. Harry grimaced. Should Danny's career as a spook fail, he had one as a poet. Or perhaps as a trader. He seemed to have embraced that life with a particular ease. Danny had proven exceptionally talented in the nuances of the stock market, all thanks to Ruth's tutelage. She had come by this knowledge because she had dated a trader, or so Tom had informed him, and for some reason, Harry found that revelation especially irksome. Knowing about a person's past made them whole. It was harder to rid oneself of a complete person. Easier to deal in generalities. But it also meant that she had not come to him straight from an egg - that there had been a man in her life and that added another dimension to her personality, one that he did not want to recognise.

As she settled in and pulled out a file, he crossed over to her. It was force of habit, his need to dominate, the tactic of invading another's personal space, and he leaned over her shoulder to look at the file. Instantly, he was caught in the veil of her scent. Fresh from the shower, smelling of shampoo and cream and a host of other notes too subtle for him to place. It came upon him so suddenly that he had no defence against it. In one breath, the layers of her perfume wafted over him, invading his nostrils, finding their way to the furthest corner of his mind. The varied notes of her scent curled around a synapse, gripping the tendrils of association and formed a memory; all without conscious thought or will on his part. His mind stopped for the briefest of seconds. She turned to him, a smile playing on her lips, her cheek coming close to his. Her shoulder rose and her lips parted, and for a moment they breathed in each other. The air between them was infused with their combined breaths, shifting, suspended, waiting. And then it was gone. Like a cloud. Harry straightened up and walked away, his mind immediately coming back to the conversation with Danny, the interaction with Ruth instantly dismissed and packed away.

A few days later, the lines finally broke. Harry's patience had paid off.

Strangely enough, even though he had made an advancement, even though he now knew beyond a doubt that she was a mole, leaking to Downing Street of all places, he did not feel like celebrating. Cradling a glass in his hand, he stared at the door that Tom had just closed. The chairs in his office were not particularly comfortable, a fact that usually suited him when others had to sit in them but now that he was in one he wished he had asked for something softer. But then, he was used to uncomfortable situations. Tom had unearthed Ruth as the leak, but when pressed, he had hesitated to name her, and Harry had given him an out, thus retaining an element of plausible deniability. In the event that it came to light that there had been a mole in his section, he could feign ignorance. It had all been taken care of and his hands were completely clean. He would walk the fine line and let Tom bear the responsibility. His Section Chief was a clever man, he too knew the advantage of playing the long game. It was a classic dilemma, expose the informant or use them. If they burned her, he would have to let her go. Not an incalculable loss; there were other analysts just as capable. Actually, she was turning out to be quite brilliant and doggedly determined. But was it worth it to keep her on? He tried to formulate a reason to keep her. A niggle formed in the back of his mind, the hint of a memory and he furrowed his brow trying to coax it forward. There was something else about her but he couldn't articulate it into a coherent thought. He brushed it away and took another long sip of his scotch.

Glancing through his office window, he saw her sitting at her station. Through the panes, it was hard to tell if she was more subdued than usual. Draining his glass he stood up from the uncomfortable couch. There must be some way to use her. He decided to see what a bit of heat would produce. He walked out to her desk.

"Nice work on Maxie Baxter."

Startled, she looked up from her work, a moment of panic at the sight of him. "Yes, well it's a fairly common ruse, using the birth certificate of a deceased person to create an identity."

"Not everyone can connect the dots."

"I suppose not."

"But you found holes in her legend."

She lowered her eyes, looking about her desk as if she had lost something. "To be fair, they didn't backstop it very well."

A large book sat on the corner of her desk and he drew it towards him, running his fingers over the title; Religion and Art. He idly flipped open the cover, turning the pages with feigned curiosity - all of it a pretence, his attention surreptitiously on her. He paused on a picture depicting a crucifixion.

"Excruciating way to die. It takes a certain kind of person to exact revenge using that method." It was a subtle reminder of the penalty the Russian mafia exacted when crossed. He flipped the page, waiting for an indication that he had unnerved her. "I don't look forward to telling Sir Richard one of his employees is a mole." He looked directly at her, but she kept her gaze lowered. "I wonder if we hadn't found her, would she have come to light eventually."

She cleared her throat before she spoke. "I suppose only if one were looking for her."

"But then, she was embedded for a number of years, easier to find someone if they're new."

She picked up a pen from her desk and then, thinking the better of it replaced it in its former position. Good lord, this woman was a textbook course on how to spot a tell. She would never last as a double agent. He studied the contours of her face, turned away in half profile to him. Tessa would have volleyed back across the bow while adding a few cheap shots of her own. That woman had been well honed, all planes and angles, but the woman in front of him was soft, there was no hardness about her at all. He was certain she didn't have the intestinal fortitude to be a double agent, stronger men than her had caved under the pressure. A position of compromise was untenable, she would eventually give. Turning back to the book, he moved to the next page revealing reproduction of a medieval print inlaid with gold leaf, the light of her desk lamp catching and reflecting the shine. He paused to admire the artist's handiwork.

"It's quite beautiful, isn't it?" She nodded towards the picture. "One of my favourites." Getting no response from Harry she continued on. "It's Giotto, very early renaissance, he's known for breaking away from the Byzantine influence. I think it's a fresco in Florence."

As she relayed the information her voice grew a bit stronger. She wasn't a field agent, she could not withstand face to face scrutiny but she was very adept at hiding behind information. That was the world she inhabited, the dissemination of data through code and cypher. Suddenly, all the qualities that he had initially deemed detrimental now became assets. There was a use for her. He would turn the worm and feed false information back to GCHQ. They had no idea she had been compromised. It ticked all the boxes. Keep a good analyst, wreak revenge. He would get Tom working on it, maintain the wall of denial. He smiled down at her.

"It's all in how one looks at something, isn't it?"

She looked at him not quite sure if she should answer. He closed the book and turned it around to her.

"Do you like this book?"

"I must admit I do."

"Then you should keep it," he tapped the cover with two fingers, the suggestion eliciting a smile from her. "As a reminder." He finished off the thought, the seriousness of his tone causing her smile to falter. He walked away leaving her to ruminate on the subtext of their conversation.

In the long run, it didn't matter if she worked out as a double agent, it had been revealed that Amanda Roke was behind the whole charade. The advantage was his. Besides, he knew what was coming. It could very well be her undoing.

.

For the second time in as many weeks, Harry cursed the hardness of his couch. He stretched out his leg trying to find a comfortable position. The dial on his watch told him that time had only inched forward. The office was a murky blue, the emergency light of the Grid blocked out by the blinds. He had no idea what was happening on the other side of the glass. Eventually, he would be missed; someone would search him out - better to be prepared. He sat up and undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. There was no need to worry about appearing flushed, the lack of circulation on the Grid had made his office an oven.

 _Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest_ _._

It was a good verse, a favourite of his, decidedly cryptic, but with the unfortunate propensity to spin through one's head like a broken record. He sighed. This whole bloody exercise was ridiculous. His team would function brilliantly under any circumstance - there was no need to go through these bloody gymnastics. The heightened reality of this one was unnecessary, and he feared that once the team found out that they had been manipulated to such an extent, it would only serve to jade them. And he couldn't afford that. Especially with Tom. Something was off with his Section Chief and he couldn't quite pinpoint whether it was professional or personal or a combination of the two.

 _Whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure._

He blew out a stream of breath hoping to expel the verse along with it. And then there was Zoe, who had somehow managed to get herself into bed with a lawyer from the bank in Lugano. Harry had not seen the evidence, and Tom had assured him that Colin would dispose of everything (he wanted no incriminating evidence on any of his officers) but that would not be enough to comfort Zoe. Embarrassment, betrayal, she no doubt felt compromised by her own team. God, he hoped he wouldn't have to address that mess. He would leave it to Tom. He almost wished she would take up with Danny. The young man pined after her enough. Keep it in the family.

 _Whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report._

He looked at the pile of papers sitting on his desk. Perhaps he could make good use of the down time and start his report on the exercise before it had concluded. What harm would there be in doing preliminary findings? He dared not chance it. Someone might walk in.

As if summoned, a knock sounded on his door. He put his head in his hands, a pained expression on his face, giving a slight rock to his body. The door slid open and hurried footsteps moved to him across the carpet.

"You have got to come out and talk to Brigitte and Mark." A slight note of anger underscored the names. "They want to leave the Grid."

It was her. Of all the member of his team, Ruth was the last person he expected. The optimum caller would have been Tom, but he had also anticipated that Sam might be dispatched to check on him. Ruth had not entered into his consideration. In fact, he was surprised she was still functioning; her scores for calmness under pressure being some of the lowest he had ever seen. She took a step closer.

"Harry? Are you alright?"

For a moment, he almost forgot his role, struck by the note of concern in her voice. It filled him with an unaccustomed warmth since at that point in his career he was hard-pressed to think of anyone who cared for his well being. Remembering his role, he rocked back and forth and mumbled his rehearsed words.

"If there be any virtue, and if there be any praise."

The toes of her shoes entered the view of his downcast eyes, and he looked up into her face. Her eyes were wide as a child; the clip that held back her hair only adding to the youthfulness of her appearance. In the beginning, it had all been a game to her. That was until VX had been introduced into the scenario and then it became deadly serious. During the briefing, he had felt a moment of sympathy for her, as she became overwhelmed by the enormity of the situation, leaving her emotional and unable to speak.

"What is it, Harry?" Her voice washed over him, soft and gentle.

"I don't feel well."

"Maybe you just need a glass of water."

He shook his head.

"Are you hungry? Maybe you need some food. I've half a chocolate if you like." Her voice was sweet as if she was talking to a child on the playground. "I hid it away, so don't tell anyone."

Harry didn't answer.

"If it helps I could sit with you awhile. I'm of no use out there."

"It's too late."

"What do you mean it's too late?" There was a soft stutter to the question.

The fabric of her trousers swayed as she moved her feet in agitation, waiting for him to answer. "Harry?"

She reached out to touch him.

"Stay away from me," he hissed.

She recoiled her hand in alarm and took a step back.

He hung his head. That should do it. At any moment, she would leave and get Tom. The whole point of the scene was to take him out of the chain of command and put the entire burden of leadership on Tom. But she did not leave. Instead, he heard the rustle of her clothes as she knelt down. She tilted her head, bringing her face into his line of sight.

"Please say you're alright."

He raised his head. There was a slight tremble to her bottom lip and she pulled it between her teeth. He looked deep into her eyes, dark in the half-light, completely open to him. Such softness; a quality sorely lacking in his life. He was caught in a moment of indecision. He could tell her, put her out of her misery, bring her into his confidence and have her promise to keep it all a secret. They could sit in his office, spend the rest of the exercise telling sad tales of the death of kings. He looked into her eyes, full of worry and compassion, completely trusting him. A novice caught in a game within a game. It was just the two of them; no one would ever know. He opened his mouth, his voice coming out in a whisper.

"You need to go."

"I can't leave you like this," she whispered back to him.

"Whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely," he breathed heavily, his words slightly slurred.

"Oh," she whispered softly. "Oh, Harry."

She said his name with such heart break that he bit his cheek for fear of slipping out of character. She believed him, she truly believed him. He lied to her because that's what the job demanded of him. He felt no qualms; it was what he had been trained to do. He was the consummate spy, no tells, no ticks, no remorse. He closed his eyes, imitating another grimace of pain.

"I'm going to go get Tom. He'll know what to do."

The soft scuff of her footsteps retreated and the door slid shut. Yes, that's it, get Tom. Harry sighed heavily. Would this exercise be the end of her? There were still more screws to be turned on the team that day. If she wanted to survive she would have to toughen up. It would be a shame to lose a good analyst.

He sat back in on the couch, a hint of fragrance stirring in the air. He inhaled deeply.

 _If there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things._

He closed his eyes and saw her face, heard the beguiling quality of her voice. There were a thousand and one virtuous things he could think on, but all his thoughts turned to her.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 - Steam Valve Exercise

Procrastination. It was a vice that Harry abhorred. Get it done, do it clean. But on this particular assignment time, he had run into a wall. The unfinished report on the Eerie exercise lay hidden under a pile of files on his desk, a white corner sticking out, taunting him. Harry sighed. There was too much bloody paperwork. In the confines of his office, two other voices vied for his attention, but he remained focused on the one in his head. Something had happened during the Eerie exercise, something to which he had not been privy. A large part of him still wondered if all the theatrics had been worth the price. There was no need to simulate a high-intensity crisis; every day was a pressure cooker.

Malcolm's voice broke through Harry's thoughts, bringing him back to the present moment. Lockerbie. A subject that was of singular interest to Harry. At one time, he had been assigned to the investigation, combing through statements, interrogating suspects; all of it leading to nothing, the inexorable pace of discovery carrying on even after he had left. And now, it looked as if the Americans were willing to accept reparations from the Libyans with no hint of compensation for UK victims. He turned his attention back to the file in his hands; intelligence gleaned from a diplomatic crate. Malcolm and Ruth stood on the other side of his desk, formulating a plan on how to unmask the cousins. Whatever had happened with the diplomatic crate, she and Malcolm had quietly rectified it without his knowledge. She seemed to have intuitively understood the need for deniability on his part. In fact, she and Malcolm had formed a sort of symbiosis, finishing each other's sentences. Harry suspected that Ruth had quietly assumed leadership in fixing this whole fiasco - which was another puzzling development as her leadership scores had been abysmal.

As she and Malcolm were departing, a thought struck him - a date that she had mentioned while talking about Libya.

"Did you say nineteen eighty-four?"

She turned back to him while Malcolm continued on out the door.

"Yes. Why?"

The original reason for his question vanished, supplanted by a curiosity as to how old she had been in nineteen eighty-four. Doing a quick calculation in his head, he surmised that she would have been a teenager, while he was... best not get into that. He would have been married with two children, sliding dangerously close to the precipice of divorce. At any rate, how would she have known about diplomatic traffic at that time? Probably in the same way she knew every other piece of salient information.

"The bombing was in eighty-eight. Just confirming," he replied hoping to gloss over his thoughts.

The file in his hands momentarily forgotten, he let his eyes rest on the woman in front of him. She was wearing a red blouse. His favourite. The colour contrasted with the darkness of her hair and the fairness of her skin, complementing the shade of her lips. He blinked as the observation sank in. At what point had he started paying enough attention to her wardrobe that he now had a favourite shirt? He supposed it was like Zoe and the blue sweater. Or Sam and that rather fetching pink top that showed a bit of midriff when she leant over. He was a man after all, but he knew it was folly to let his thoughts stray too far down that road. He needed a distraction outside of work, something else to occupy his mind other than admiring the various attributes of his female staff. There had been a lovely woman at the Italian Trade reception, Monica was her name. An enchanting brunette with a neat little figure. He had just managed to charm a phone number from her before the event had fallen apart and everyone had scurried from the building at the news that the American President was planning a visit. Yes, he would give her a ring. In an effort to shut out the thoughts that were intruding on his mind, he closed the file on Libya and, taking a deep breath, tugged the unfinished report out from under the pile of papers. Better to get on with it.

"Having that woman here is absolutely ridiculous."

He raised his head somewhat startled that Ruth was still in his office.

"Is that Dale woman bothering you too?"

"Not her - Miranda."

"Standard procedure. They do it every few years." With a preoccupied air, he extracted the file folder from the pile hoping she would take it as a subtle hint and leave.

"Haven't we already been through enough psychological torture?" she continued, seemingly oblivious to his hint. "I think we've demonstrated how well the team functions under pressure."

"That was a practical assessment. This is a psychological one."

"Practical? It was cruel and manipulative."

The force of her voice gave him pause. Ever since the Eerie exercise, she had spoken to him with a greater confidence. Any insecurities she may have developed about being discovered as a mole had vanished. What had happened during the exercise? At its conclusion, she had called him a bastard. He had laughed it off, letting it go unchallenged. He had been called worse in his time. But the sting from her words refused to abate, the cut remaining close to the surface, easily scratched. He chalked her audacity up to wounded pride, having been taken in by his machinations. She would get over it, as would he. In the long run, it didn't matter. She would soon be gone.

"I'm sorry you feel that way." Flipping open the folder, he clicked his pen as he made to write his signature. "I hope you'll forgive me."

It was an offhanded remark meant merely to placate her in the moment, a statement to usher her out the door and not into a conversation, but she did not leave as he expected. Instead, she stayed, and the room was infused with a heavy quiet.

"I thought you were dying."

The pen paused in his hand. Her voice was so soft he wasn't quite sure if he had heard her. He slowly looked up. Seeing that she had his attention, she continued.

"I argued with Tom about letting you out, at least giving you some water, but he was adamant. In the end, I deferred to him."

It was the way she said the name - Tom. The single syllable invested with a sort of reverence. Had something happened between her and his Section Chief while he had been quarantined? It looked as if Tom's reprieve of her sins had somehow made her loyal to him, a bond that had been strengthened during their enforced confinement on the Grid. He sat back, contemplating the development. He gave her a half nod.

"You made the right decision"

"Did I?"

"We can't let emotions colour our decisions. If the exercise had been real, letting me out would have compromised the Grid and jeopardised the fate of countless others who were depending on it as a command centre."

"It was a horrible thing to do."

"If it's any consolation, I didn't take it personally."

He returned to his papers, thinking their business had been concluded.

"So it didn't matter?"

"It wasn't real."

"But it was to me. It was to all of us."

Her voice was strident and he thought she was about to call him a bastard once again. And then it hit him, why she had been angry. He had taken advantage of her sympathies, manipulated her, and as a result, he had squandered her good will. Any burgeoning loyalty she might have developed toward him was now firmly placed at the feet of Tom. The realisation rankled him. Loyalty to Tom was a good thing, a bond with one's colleagues always made the team stronger. But a serpent of selfishness hissed within him; he wanted her loyalty. Every last drop of it. He shook his head trying to shake off his possessive thoughts. He hadn't even decided if he wanted her to be a permanent part of the team.

"What's done is done. We're contending with another crisis now. We need to figure out what the Americans are doing besides driving us crazy. If they ask for one more background check, I won't be held responsible for my actions."

His attempt to reroute the subject back to the present had no effect on her. Arms crossed, head tilted to one side, she was not retreating. He had the distinct feeling she was analysing him, reading his thoughts as they tumbled through his mind. He wanted to stand and assert his position but thought that might look ridiculous. He decided to take a conciliatory tone.

"If it sets your mind at ease, I would think as a desk spook you will never be asked to make that sort of decision."

"I hope not. Because I couldn't live with myself if I had to sacrifice someone."

"Perhaps you can discuss this quandary with the psychologist."

"Why on earth would I reveal anything about myself or the team to her?

Her words pleased him, he didn't know if she could be fully trusted but he was relieved that she would not divulge the inner failings of the department to a psychologist.

"If you don't mind," he gestured to the paper on his desk, leaving her to fill in the rest of the sentence.

"It's a report on the Eerie exercise, isn't it?"

How the devil had she figured that out?

"It's another formality; observations, conclusion, steps going forward."

"Do you want to know what I learned?" she asked.

"No." Closing his eyes, he inhaled a breath of resignation. "But I'm sure you'll tell me."

"I learned that leaders don't have feelings."

Scratch. Words like nails, dragged across his skin, hitting the tender spot.

He looked at her, his expression neutral, mouth in a grim line, revealing nothing. Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heels, her skirt swishing as she walked out the door. He threw his pen on top of the report in frustration. What had just happened? Years of practice had made him immune to most criticism, words did not affect him. Was he getting soft? No that wasn't it. It was fatigue. He had been exhausted after the Eerie exercise and today he was even more tired, twice as hungry, and up to his neck in Americans; that was the reason. Her words were of little consequence. She was just an analyst.

A week later, he was still not appeased regarding her loyalty. If possible, he was even more angered by her lack of support, a development compounded by the apparent desertion of the rest of his team. Except for Tom. He could always depend on Tom.

Like a bear in a cage, Harry prowled around his office, the space far too small to contain the breadth of his anger. Words of censure floated around his head. Stupid, stupid man. Any other time, any other day, the codes would have been perfectly safe at his house. What was the use of having a state of the art security system if some teenage punk could breach it? Shit. He found little consolation in the fact that not even Colin couldn't even figure out how the intruder had defeated it. He stopped pacing and ran a hand through his hair. There was no other option. He was going to have to come clean, grovel to Six for the codes, tell the DG, and clean out his desk. There were benefits to early retirement, although if he was to leave under these circumstances none of them would be monetary.

Knuckles rapped on his door.

"Yes," he growled.

He turned around to see Ruth. Foolish woman, daring to poke the bear. Let her come in, see if she leaves with her head. At the briefing, she had shown no qualms in telling him that he needed to confess the loss of the codes to Six. In truth, she had only voiced what the rest of the team had been thinking. He supposed he should commend her on her courage to speak up, and he would have if she had spoken out against anyone else but him.

"There's an intercept from GCHQ," she informed him. "Call made from a Chinese Government plane to Hastings' office."

Harry's anger abated slightly as the demands of the operation took precedent. "He wants to sell Firestorm to the Chinese?"

"Looks that way."

He leaned back against his desk, grimacing as he crossed his arms. Through half closed lids, he saw her eyes running over him, appraising his outfit. He tried not to squirm under her gaze. Woken from the depths of sleep at three in the morning, he had groggily chosen the quickest ensemble and headed out the door. Having come back for a quick shave, he hadn't bothered to change for the work day. His habitual layers of armour had been replaced by a single blue shirt. His hold on authority was already precarious, his casual clothing only served to underscore his lack of command. He stared back at Ruth. Hard. She remained standing in front of him, swaying slightly, wanting to leave but daring not. Always balancing on the edge of indecision; a luxury he could never enjoy. He couldn't help but harken back to her appearance in his section; he still wasn't entirely sure why she had been planted on the Grid, and he continued to labour under the assumption that it was to somehow undermine him. If he were to go down in flames, it would no doubt please Amanda Roke as well as a number of other individuals he had crossed in his career. His thoughts collected steam, stoking the fire of animosity against the analyst. He could not bear that she was present to witness his downfall. If he fell from grace, he would take a pound of flesh with him.

"You'll be happy to know I'm falling on my sword and confessing my transgressions to the DG."

"I'm not happy about that, Harry."

"You're the one that suggested it."

'It's protocol," she calmly reminded him.

"And you know all about protocol, don't you Ruth?" He inhaled, gathering strength for his assault. "Remind me, if you would, what is rule number one?"

Her eyes widened slightly, his words echoing hers from the briefing. Words spoken after Harry had left the room.

"What is rule number one, Ruth?" he hissed, leaning toward her, his voice menacingly low.

She shifted her stance as if trying to shed the blanket of discomfort she found herself under. She looked down at the floor, her words swallowed up by the carpet. He brought his face in closer to hers.

"What was that?"

She cleared her throat and looked up at him. "Never take your work home."

"And rule number two?"

"Report someone who does."

"Are you going to report me, Ruth?"

"You just said you were going to confess."

Giving her a daggered look he bit his tongue. Who was she to talk of confession? She had exposed an agent, endangered an operation, and in the end was ultimately granted absolution all without a confession. She had been discovered.

"Do you know what the eleventh commandment is?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Don't get caught." He paused for effect, letting his words sink in. "Is it better to confess or be found out?" He laid the question down like a brick in a wall, blocking her in. "And if someone is caught, do you think that offender deserves a second chance?"

He aimed as close as he dared to her betrayal and the subsequent pact with Tom. She kept her eyes lowered. A muscle moved at the corner of her jaw as she fought to mask her thoughts. He waited, anticipating that it would soon end and she would confess all to him.

"If the tables were turned, would you report me?" she quietly asked.

"I'm your superior."

"So that's how it works." Her voice gathered a note of confidence. "Those at the top get a pass,"

"I will always protect my team to the best of my ability."

"Even if it was morally wrong?"

His lips curled in a slight smile, bemused at her naivety.

"Welcome to my world, Ruth. On any given day a thousand and one decisions, each of the ripe with catastrophe. Do you know what makes my decisions easier?"

"Having the right intelligence?" she answered faintly.

"Taking morality out of the equation."

"I don't believe you do that."

"It doesn't matter what you believe." His anger swelled back up to its original force. "You, of all people, have no moral authority-"

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that she was only in the section by the grace of his good will, but he hastily pressed his lips together biting back his words. He should have gotten rid of her when he had the chance. Too late now, she was embedded in the team. She knew too much. Tom had found a use for her, leaking misinformation to GCHQ, and Operation Barcode had delivered unforeseen results. They had underplayed their technical and translation capacities, leading to an increased budget for those services. She had kept GCHQ at bay by insinuating that Five was doing background checks on all its employees. It was all very beneficial, but was it worth it? His eyes bored into her, and he could see the wheels of her mind turning as she looked back at him. He knew the look; it was asking if he knew about her transgressions. He held her eyes, daring her to come clean. A veteran of this type of battle, he would always come out ahead.

"For the record, Harry," she told him with quiet certainty "I never said I would report you."

The unexpectedness of her reply took him aback. With her simple statement, his anger evaporated. She had put a foot in his camp. He had nothing to fight against. It was a clever tactic. She may not be the one to lead the vanguard over the hill, but she would stand her ground with subtle conviction.

His phone rang, but he kept his eyes trained on her. Two rings, three - she held his gaze without backing down. On the fourth ring, he turned and barked a greeting into the phone. Holding the receiver to his ear, he turned back to look at her, but she was gone. The voice on the other end of the line continued to speak, even though he was not entirely invested in the conversation. Maybe, just maybe, it might be a good idea to keep that woman on his team.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - Gatekeeper

"Ruth, a moment."

As he so often did, Harry breezed past the analyst's desk, a command issuing from his lips, not taking the time to stop and see if it had registered with the recipient but confident that it would be heeded unquestioned. As he walked away, papers rustled, the wheels of her chair creaked, and the soft tread of her low heeled boots hit the floor as she followed him into his office.

He pulled out his chair and sat down, fingers moving to give a quick pull to the bottom of his waistcoat. He cricked his neck, relishing the feel of his starched collar against his skin. Good to be back in uniform again. Ruth stood in the doorway, half in, half out of the room.

"Yes, Harry?" Her voice held that ever present note of expectation, the anticipation that she had been singled out for a task particularly suited to her talents.

"Close the door, please."

A wary look crossed her face, and she slowly did as he asked, her demeanour instantly changing as she stepped tentatively into the room. He motioned for her to take a seat. Arranging the folds of her skirt, she perched on the chair across from Harry. He placed his elbows on the desk, forming a steeple with his hands, resting his chin on his fingers, brow creased with thought. The silence stretched out between them, and he watched as the drip of time slowly eroded her confidence. Hands once clasped tightly in her lap began to move, fingers rubbing against each other with barely contained agitation. He gave her a long, hard look. Her chest filled with shallow breaths as she bit her bottom lip, struggling to maintain her composure. He silently counted down the seconds until she crumbled. Three, two. As if on cue, she broke under his scrutiny, her eyes dropping, a nervous lick to the lips.

"Oh God," she expelled the words in a huff of breath, her distress apparent. "It's about the memo from GCHQ, isn't?"

"Yes."

"I know you said in the interview that this was only a secondment and that it didn't mean a permanent placement, but I thought with the opportunity to prove myself-"

"Ruth-"

"I'm good at this job, you know that I am."

"No one had said anything to the contrary."

"I'm here before everyone else, I stay late, I go beyond what is asked of me-"

Her voice was rapidly ascending the ladder of hysteria, and Harry wondered exactly what horrors lay at GCHQ that she was so loath to return.

"You're work has been exemplary."

"I really thought I could make a difference." Her eyes turned toward the ceiling, blinking rapidly.

He looked at her in bewilderment, mystified by how quickly her emotions had escalated and with very little prompting on his part.

"Ruth, you need to listen-"

"If you could only get me a few more weeks, I could show you, I could prove-"

"Ruth!"

She jumped in her seat, eyes wide as if realising he was still in the room. It had been unfortunate that he had to take such a harsh tone but there seemed no other way to break through her self-inflicted spiral.

"Take a breath and listen to what I have to say."

She nodded.

"It has come to my attention that our person inside GCHQ has been compromised."

Her lips formed a word and then thought better of it, opening instead into a circle of incredulity and then closing as the realisation of what he had actually said sunk in.

"We have someone inside GCHQ?"

"They spy on us we spy on them."

"But how? Why?" She was completely flummoxed, her mind stalled at having to reorder her entire concept of the known universe. "How did I not know about this?"

"You can't know everything."

"It's my job to know everything," she asserted as if her very existence depended on that fact.

"Yes, well," he continued, sitting back in his chair, "They know about Operation Barcode."

"Oh." Once again wheels turned in her mind, a conclusion forming. "Then that means you also know about the misdirection."

"Information is not going to leave this section without my approval. Even if it is false."

"It wasn't my idea. It was sanctioned by Tom…"

"Yes, I know."

"But he never told me that you were aware….." Looking down at her hands, she trailed off unable to complete the sentence.

"Of what?" He gave her a moment to answer, ultimately knowing that she wouldn't. "The quid pro quo nature of your assignment?"

"He promised he wouldn't tell you."

Voice no more than a whisper, her face revealed a look of profound hurt, all of it, the hallmarks of one betrayed. The darker part of Harry wanted her to believe that Tom had abandoned her, but there was nothing to be gained by pulling her even further through the wringer; she was doing an excellent job that herself.

"He didn't tell me," he assured her.

"Colin?"

Harry shook his head.

"Then how did you know?"

"It's my job to know everything."

One final move and the hierarchy of the Grid was reasserted. The board shifted, and all the pieces that she had in her possession tumbled over. There was no clarion call of victory, only an almost imperceptible crack in the air between them, the unspoken truce that comes with defeat. They both acknowledged their new positions as he reclaimed the moral high ground, her footing having slipped down a notch. The truth now out, his plausible deniability shattered, there was nothing left to hide. She had outlived her usefulness, he could sacrifice her up to the gods of espionage. He had to burn her.

"So…" she licked her lips, girding herself for the final capitulation. "I guess that means you pull your person out and in exchange, I go back to GCHQ and it's called even."

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean? Are you saying I can't even go back to GCHQ?"

"I think you may have underestimated your value. You of all people should know that intelligence is the currency of interagency rivalry."

"But we're all on the same side."

"Better to be first among equals."

"I'm not quite sure what that means."

"I'm keeping you."

She stopped breathing. His brow creased with concern. After a moment, her breathing came back, her chest moving with increasing speed verging on hyperventilation. Seeing the look on Harry's face, she calmed herself and inhaled deeply.

"Thank you. Thank you. You won't be disappointed."

A glorious smile crossed her face as she moved to the edge of her chair, and for a moment he thought she was going to jump up and hug him. Instead, she smoothed her hands over her skirt.

"You won't regret this."

"I certainly hope not"

They sat for a minute looking at each other, her face beaming as she waited for him to carry on the conversation. Realising that Harry was not going to add anything, she gave a nervous look about the room and then inhaled a shaky breath.

"I guess I should get back to work then."

"Yes. There's a convoy of spent nuclear waste that we need to keep an eye on."

She rose from her seat, a death row inmate with a commuted sentence. At the door, she paused and looked back at him.

"Thank you, Harry, for overlooking my transgression."

"It's still on the board, I've merely set it to one side for now."

The smile on her face faltered. He had given her one square to work with, she would have to win the rest herself. Never take anything for granted. For the time being, he was satisfied that she had no lingering loyalty to her former masters at GCHQ, and he wondered if he had unstitched her loyalty to Tom; if there was a loose thread that would bind her to him. If she proved herself, he could do something with her, make her a proper spook. The question was, as with any of his officers, how far could he push her? Before she could continue her way out the door he called to her.

"Oh, Ruth."

She stopped.

"What time is my surprise party?"

"Party?" she echoed innocently. "I don't know what you're talking about." She looked at him in confusion.

She walked away before he could interrogate her any further. It wasn't the best of lies, but it would do for now.

.

Of course, it a came to pass that there was a party, and like many a surprise party, the guest of honour having known something was afoot, was not enjoying the festivities as heartily as the other guests. Harry made an effort to put on a game face as he exited his office, bestowing an appreciative smile on the staff that he passed, giving no indication that he had just given Tom a sound drubbing. The man needed a refresher in the commandments of spying. Instead of Tom being embedded in the military, the army had infiltrated him. It was unfortunate that things had ended with Curtis the way they did, but Tom needed to step back. Look at the picture as a whole and not get caught up in the minutia. Never, ever let personal feelings become involved in an operation.

Sam walked by, a friendly smile on her face as she handed Harry a glass of champagne. His eyes followed her appreciatively as she walked away. Lovely girl. He took a sip and tried not to grimace as the liquid hit his pallet. It was not the best of champagnes. Oh well, it was the thought that counted. The team had probably worked on limited funds, the majority of the money going into his present, for which he was entirely grateful. He scanned the room, his eye landing on the dark head of Tom bent in intent discussion with the blonde one of Christine Dale. Another sin in the making. She had managed to somehow worm her way onto the Grid, citing some communique from Grosvenor Square. Hopefully, their conversation was about ending whatever nefarious liaison they had cooked up between them. He took a large swig, telling himself that was highly unlikely. If life had taught him anything, threats only made one hold onto the object of desire with a fiercer determination. She would be gone from his officer's life if Harry had to extract her himself.

Conversations grew a little louder as the second round of drinks made its way about the room, laughter combining with the low hum of music. Harry tore his eyes away from Tom and looked around for a conversation to join. In the past at this sort of function, he would have struck up a conversation with Tessa, and she would have entertained him with her acerbic humour. He chastised himself for having a fond thought about that woman, but with her absence, he was left with few contemporaries. There was always Malcolm but he was deep in conversation with Colin. After the day Harry had put in, he did not fancy a debate on nanotechnology. Associating with Tom was out of the question. It was highly likely that Tom might never speak to him again. There was no one else. It wasn't that the rest of the room was young, it was just that birthdays had a way of reminding one of the inevitable passage of time, and this birthday was one of those annoying milestones. He was fifty. Perhaps not as glamorous as forty, but he was still in his prime. He was a doyen in his field, had achieved a number of accomplishment, risen through the ranks to be head of the Section. He had clout, a voice to be reckoned with, feared in some circles. There may have been a hint of a mid life crisis a few years back, but that was over with now. He was firmly established. As he stood alone with his glass of not quite champagne, he refused to reflect on the one thing that was truly missing from his life.

He saw Zoe across the room and moved towards her. She may be one of the few people left in whose good books he still remained. As he neared the desk, he saw that she was talking to Ruth. He paused in his tracks, rethinking his decision to join the conversation. He couldn't quite place his misgivings, perhaps it all came down to the fact that he still didn't quite trust the analyst. But he was tired of standing alone, he needed to invest in this party at some point, so he continued over to the workstation where the two women stood.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," Zoe greeted him with a raise of her glass.

"Happy Birthday," Ruth followed with a similar salute.

Her cheeks were tinged with a faint blush, and he wondered how many glasses she had imbibed.

"Thank you for the wonderful party." He held up his glass in return.

"Oh, that's all Danny and Sam," said Zoe. "They took this covert operation very seriously."

"They've missed their calling as party planners." Harry took another sip of his drink, focusing his attention on Zoe. "You did a fine job filling in as section chief today. You should be very proud."

"Thank you."

"You might want to think about looking into advanced training."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Ruth stood quietly by, making no attempt to insert herself into the conversation. He kept his body turned away from her but remained acutely aware of her presence. Even though he was talking with Zoe, a deeper layer of him was engaged with Ruth.

A mobile buzzed on the desk.

"Ah, that's me," said Zoe. "I'm just going to ….." Gesturing to a quiet part of the Grid, she picked up the phone and moved away.

With Zoe's departure, he was left alone with Ruth, a fact that also seemed to have dawned on the analyst, for she straightened up and made a move as if to follow Zoe. She was caught at the intersection of two desks, her passage impeded by Harry, and he made no effort to move out of her way. He turned his full attention on her. He didn't tower over many people, he was of an average height, a quality often sought out by the service, neither too tall, nor too short, hard to describe, so he took a moment to enjoy the fact that he was a good head taller than the woman in front of him.

They stood wrapped in an awkward silence, Harry wondering if he should make an excuse and leave. Small talk at this point might serve to undermine any authority he had claimed during their discussion about her place on the team. Perhaps a few words, no harm in building a rapport with one's staff.

"Thank you for the present."

"Present?" she echoed.

"The scotch."

"That was Sam's doing too."

"Handy woman to have around."

"That she is." Ruth took a large sip of her drink.

With no pressing operational concerns to occupy his mind, he took a moment to study her outfit. A dark skirt down to her ankles with a top the colour of a fine Bordeaux. It looked to be made of velvet and he quelled the urge to reach out and touch it. Everything was covered as per usual except for the crescent of skin around her collar bone. Somehow, her choice of clothing put her in a separate category from Zoe and Sam, though there couldn't be that many years between them. He still found it odd, this strange mixture of youth and wisdom, knowledge and naivety. A rare combination of qualities.

"Hard to come by," he cleared his throat, working the thought he had spoken aloud into the conversation. "Twenty-five-year-old scotch."

"I suppose it is."

"Well worth the wait."

"Most good things are."

"Ever tried it?"

"Waiting?"

"A twenty-five year old."

She looked at him in alarm.

"Scotch," he hastily added the last word, realising that if he left the sentence hanging as he left it, he would probably land him in no end of hot water. It did lead him to wonder how much older she was than the bottle of scotch he had just acquired.

"I'm not really much of a scotch drinker," she answered, mercifully side stepping his almost breach. "Always thought it belonged to portly old men, lounging in smoke filled clubs, reminiscing about the last days of the empire."

The conversation sputtered to a halt. His face became perfectly still, and her mouth opened as she realised what she had just said. She blinked rapidly, obviously trying to find a way out of the situation she had created.

"Not you, of course."

"Of course," he agreed flatly.

She placed her glass down on the desk. "I should get going."

He had no intention of releasing her after her previous comment. Her characterisation of scotch drinkers had hit a little too close and he couldn't quite tamper down the instinct to assert his virility. A subtle shift of his weight brought him closer to her legs, and she inched back against the desk.

"Any plans for tonight?" he asked.

"Dinner," she nodded nervously. "With my cat."

He took a long drink of the champagne and gave her an uncompromising look.

"I have a dog."

"I'm not much of a dog person."

"I'm not much of a cat person."

He coloured the word cat with the same loathing he had for politicians, the IRA and modern day slang.

Having highlighted their incompatible drink and pet preferences, the conversation limped to a halt once more, the air uncomfortably stiff. He did nothing to alleviate the situation, relishing her discomfort. She reached back down for her glass and took a nervous sip. Her eyes kept darting to the other side of Harry's shoulder and he cast a subtle glance over it as he took a sip of his drink. Tom stood at the pods still in conversation with Christine Dale. Harry looked back at Ruth. A bit of jealousy perhaps? He had not failed to notice the way Ruth had greeted Tom on his return from the stand off with Curtis. A warm smile and a nice little peck on the cheek. His eyes fell to her lips, and he calculated the odds of receiving a birthday kiss from here. No, she would never look at him the way she looked at Tom. Young, good looking, head full of hair, Tom. Suddenly the jealousy he had assigned to her careened back to him, and he moved his throat in an effort to swallow its bitter after taste.

"And do you have plans," she asked in a valiant effort to restart the conversation on neutral ground.

"I'm meeting an old friend."

"Ah," she replied knowingly.

"What?"

"That's usually a euphemism for a date, isn't it?

"Is it?"

"Rather like inviting someone up to see your etchings."

His brain told him to stop but his mouth in impish contrast kept moving.

"And have you invited many people up to see your etchings, Ruth?"

It took all of his composure not to laugh at the look on her face. Her cheeks reddened with more than drink. He shouldn't have said it, but she had set it up so nicely. He had probably crossed over a line into workplace harassment. They weren't on the clock - although, in reality, he was always on the clock. It was his birthday, after all, he was allowed to have a little fun. He finished off his drink.

"I'm going to go a find myself another glass of this delicious champagne. Can I get you another?"

"No, I shouldn't. Champagne goes straight to my head."

He couldn't help but smile at the image of her, a little tipsy, sitting on her desk, legs swinging as she revealed state secrets, exposing more than the curve of skin at her throat. He blinked. It seemed as if the champagne was going to his head.

"Well, then, If I don't see you before you leave, have a good dinner. With you cat." He leaned down to her, bringing his mouth close to her ear, his lowered tone evoking a certain intimacy. "Unless that's a euphemism for something else."

She couldn't look him in the eye, another blush colouring her face, the apple of her cheek moving as she struggled not to smile. It was rather a delightful pastime, making this woman blush, but he had toyed with her long enough, he should let her off the hook.

Harry sauntered off, getting a refill from Sam as he headed over in the direction of Malcolm and Colin. After a few moments, he searched for Ruth across the Grid and found her talking to Tom, another glass of champagne in her hand. He turned his back to the scene, focusing on his own plans. He was indeed meeting an old friend for dinner; Clive Mctaggart. Tomorrow, barring a national emergency, he was having another drink with Monica, which hopefully with enough persuasion would lead to something else. As for the rest of the evening, he wouldn't be lonely. He would spend it in the company of a lovely twenty-five-year-old bottle of scotch.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N- Sorry for the delay in posting. Thank you so much for reading and to those of you who have taken the time to review._

Chapter 6 - Physician Heal Thyself

Although the wall of Harry's office was transparent, the man inside was not. Concealment was always the best strategy. That did not stop him from taking full advantage of the illusory nature of the glass. It gave the impression that he was a part of the team but there was a marked separation, a division between the leader and the troops, one can never let feelings for colleagues erase the line of professionalism. Even more important, it was an all seeing eye, a window into the lives of his staff, allowing him the opportunity to watch whatever transpired on the Grid. Dramas unfolded before him; silent conversations, the hidden language of gestures, laughter, frustration, despair. He saw it all.

Admittedly, there were times when wanted to turn a blind eye to what played out before him, ignore petty grievances, but inevitably trivial incidences ballooned into larger problems. For a number of weeks, he had ignored his experience and refused to acknowledge the crack in the psyche of his Section Chief, but day after day the fissure grew more obvious. A harsh word here, the bite of sarcasm there. It all added up.

Tom had been with him for ten years, he had spotted the young man straight out of Cambridge, possessed of a maturity far beyond his age. Even now after countless operations, Harry still hadn't quite unravelled the enigma that was Tom Quinn. The only certainty was that Tom appeared poised on an all too familiar precipice. Harry recognised the signs. He had been to the edge himself. There had once been a particularly black time in his career; the sudden death of Archie Hollingshead and his wife Amanda. Colleagues, friends, they were two people who at times had been closer to Harry than his own family. The weight of guilt over their deaths had been unbearable, grief sucking the air from his lungs, the uselessness of his own life looming large. His only respite - drink and empty encounters; his marriage having ended and no one in his immediate family speaking to him. The Service had offered him counselling, but he declined. Sitting with a stranger and picking at a scab was no way to heal a wound. In the end, he had brought himself back through work but that was not the remedy for everyone.

Harry's fingers found a pencil on his desk and he absently tapped it, meditating on the root cause of Tom's dissatisfaction. There had been the horrific death of Helen, Tom had taken that especially hard, carrying the burden of his choices. He had entered into a relationship with a woman while under the guise of legend and then saw it all disintegrate under the terror of the bomb incident. The psychological manipulation of the Eerie exercise must have felt like a finger on the wound, topped off by the supposed treachery of the state in the killing of Major Curtis. So many blows in quick succession. Others officers had gone over with less, their lives breaking with the fall. He couldn't afford that with Tom, he needed the young man's instinct, his intensity. They were a good fit. He only needed to whisper in Tom's ear and it would be done. It was a rarity to find a trust like that.

Harry turned the pencil over in his fingers, his mind moving with it. Trust, it seemed, was a rare commodity these days, for it had come to light that the Section once again had a mole, and information was being funnelled to, of all people, Tessa.

The pencil snapped in his hand.

He looked out onto the Grid to see if anyone had noticed.

There was still a direct line of sight straight down to Ruth's desk. Alone on her island, no other desk having "officially" become available. He was in no hurry to move her. Best not to upset the status quo. Could it be possible that she had reverted to her former ways? Was there some connection between her and Tessa? He refused to entertain the thought, but he continued to watch her through the glass, looking for a sign of duplicity. So far, the only conclusion that he had formed was that she too was a watcher. For the most part, her head was buried behind her computer, but there were days when she would sit for stretches at a time covertly surveying the occupants of the Grid. It was rather unnerving to see someone doing the exact same thing he did. What secrets had she unearthed about her colleagues? What had she learned about him? As if sensing his scrutiny, her head lifted up and she looked directly at him. He looked away and down to the file on his desk. A watcher should never be found out.

After what he considered an appropriate amount of time, he lifted his head, his eyes drawn once more to Ruth's desk. Once again, she was immersed in her work, half hidden behind the computer screen. He would do well to follow her example and get back to his own tasks.

After tossing his broken pencil into the waste bin, Harry opened a drawer and searched for a new writing instrument. As he turned back to the document on his desk, he quickly glanced up, his eye catching sight of Tom as he walked across the Grid. Harry paused, taking a moment to study his Section Chief. Long strides carried him in the direction of the technical suite, but there was a momentary halt to his progress. Harry followed Tom's gaze over to the cause. Ruth stood at her work station, motioning for Tom to come over. Harry could tell by her animated manner that she was delivering a choice piece of intel, and his neck bristled at the thought that she would deliver it to Tom first instead of him. After a few words from Tom, a large smile broke across her face, her eyes lowering in demur acceptance of what appeared to be a compliment.

Harry rubbed his thumb along the pencil.

The conversation continued, and Ruth tilted her head in concentration, a lock of hair falling over her cheek. She moved the strand behind her ear, her fingers dropping to absently play with the chain around her neck. Sam passed by and deposited a folder on the desk, but Ruth remained totally oblivious to the young woman's presence, her eyes remaining on Tom. The Section Chief obviously said something amusing, for Ruth threw her head back, throat exposed in a peal of silent laughter.

The grip on his pencil tightened.

After a brief moment of banter, Ruth reached her hand out and casually touched Tom's sleeve. The solicitous nature of the gesture irked Harry. Only a few hours ago, the man had yelled at her during a briefing, followed by a not overly sincere apology elicited by Harry's glare. Had she no pride?

The conversation ended with Tom's departure, but she remained standing, her eyes following Tom as he walked away, a smile still on her face.

Harry pursed his lips in a moue of disapproval. It smacked of hero worship. It was pathetic. Not that it mattered, he amended, she meant nothing to him. He continued to watch the analyst as her pen twirled through her fingers, a soft smile still lingering on her lips, her shoulders moving with a sigh. So lost in idle thought was she, that she did not bother to look back when she made to sit down. There was a moment of panic as she half missed the chair and teetered for a second, arms flying out in search of balance. Her hand smacked down on the top of the desk and she steadied herself. Righting the chair, she quickly looked around the Grid to see if anyone had noticed her lack of grace. Satisfied that her mishap had gone unseen, she adjusted her chair. Harry sat at his desk, quietly chuckling, secretly pleased at her near misfortune, hoping she had learned her lesson.

Unaware of his musings, Ruth carried on, running her fingers through her hair and pulling down her blouse as she sat straighter in the chair. He continued to look at her, a small smile playing on his lips. Silly woman. Served her right. With an abrupt movement, she turned her head and looked straight at him, and for a fleeting second, he thought she had heard his thoughts. Without missing a beat, Harry reached for the phone and picked up the receiver, hiding his smile with the mouthpiece. The phone rang on Ruth's desk, and he spoke before she could utter a greeting.

"Anything from the briefcase passing between the Columbians and Vaughn."

"Ah no," she stuttered, moving papers around on her desk. "I'm still waiting on that."

"We have to get out in front of the Charla Cartel."

"Yes, of course."

"I want to know as soon as anything comes in."

"I'll do that." A paper flitted down from her desk and she leaned over to pick it up, her head disappearing for a few moments before it popped back up.

"Before Tom," he added.

The was a moment of silence, her actions halting as she digested his request. "Alright," she finally consented.

Harry hung up the phone, satisfied that he had shaken her from her reverie and brought him back to the operation at hand. A little bit of fear never hurt anyone.

.

The air of the briefing room hung like a heavy curtain, settling around Harry with silent judgment. Alone in the suffocating atmosphere, he loosened his tie, but it made no difference to the dryness of his throat. With everyone gone for the night, the overhead lights were off, the recessed lamps in the wall casting blue shadows. The only company that remained was a bottle of scotch and the larger than life face of Tessa Phillips, mocking him in high resolution. Was this woman destined to haunt him for the rest of his life? It was of small consolation that she had fled the country. Could he ever silence her? The remote on at the table taunted him, daring him to throw it at the screen but it wouldn't matter, her voice would still echo round his head.

Decisions have consequences.

Of course, he knew that - he had learned that lesson on day one. The problem was always the ever expanding ripples from the pebble dropped in the pond. By all accounts the operation had been a success; they had sewn up a drug cartel and interrupted the sale of a surface to air missile. The death of the Columbian girl was a tragedy, an unforeseen event, but it could be written off as collateral damage.

Fingers flexing on the cool surface of the glass table, he studied his hand. He could twist the facts any way he wanted to, but the finger of blame pointed back to him. If he had made the concession to Tessa and let her hand over Rafa to the Spanish, the girl might still be alive. But he could not stomach her request. That woman had infiltrated his section, made a mockery out of him and his team. He needed to deal her a lasting blow and have done with her once and for all. So in a weakened moment, he had let his decision be coloured by vengeance. Never act in emotional haste. Deliver the blow with cold calculation, minimize the fallout. His fingers clenched into a fist, and he silently cursed Sam and her naivety. Although he wanted to wring the young woman's neck for falling prey to Tessa's machinations, he conceded that she had merely been a pawn. Never attribute to malice what could be explained by stupidity.

Clicking the decanter, he poured himself another healthy measure of scotch and mused about his Section Chief. The man had let himself become emotionally involved with the Columbian girl and had taken her death far too personally. Always keep an asset at arm's length. Operations never wrapped up neatly; in the end, it was the final outcome that was important.

There was a slight movement in the air telling him he was not alone. Even though his back was to the door, he could sense her presence hovering at the entry way. Of late, she had taken to barging into his office and he wondered why she had chosen this particular moment to hesitate. She was the last thing he wanted to deal with.

"What?" he asked irritably.

"I was looking for Tom."

Of course, she was looking for Tom. Her hero.

"He's gone home."

"Oh," The news was unexpected. "He didn't…"

As Ruth trailed off, he finished the sentence in his mind. Didn't what? Say goodnight, kiss you goodbye. He grimaced and took a large swig of his scotch. He knew where Tom had gone; where Harry would go if he had the chance - into the warm arms of a waiting woman. The woman Tom had been warned to stay away from. His own liaison with Monica was disintegrating, as per usual when the course of his relationships reached a certain juncture; the point where one declared feelings and commitment, words unnatural to his tongue. He was incapable of delivering on any of those ingredients. The reminder of that flaw only served to heighten his vexation. If he could not be happy, he wanted others to join him in his soured state. He drained his glass, depositing it on the table with a gesture of finality. He was well on his way to becoming a bitter old man. Most likely, it was only an innocent crush that the analyst harboured for his Section Chief. Still, he couldn't fathom why it bothered him so much. Filing away his thoughts, he brought his mind back to professional matters.

"Can I help you?"

"No, I was just doing some research for Tom."

That was a bridge too far. He closed his eyes and inhaled an irritated breath. Tom was not the be all and end all of the section.

"Come."

Harry shifted a chair out around the briefing table indicating that she should sit down. She did not immediately follow his command. The heavy air stirred with the subtle crackle of her insurgency. He kept his back to her, using the silence of the room to pull her in, the set of his shoulders communicating his thoughts. It made no consequence to him if she entered, but it would be of grave consequence to her if she left. Observant, intuitive, he wagered she had been around long enough to understand his body language. Only hours before she had had quickly scuttled out of the way when Harry had stormed around the table to quash Tom's disrespect. The fallout from his anger still lay dormant in the corners of the room. He closed his eyes and waited. The sound of muffled footsteps told him she had entered the room, and the swish of her skirt indicated she had taken up the chair. As he spoke, he kept his attention on the empty tumbler, his fingers toying with the edge of the glass.

"It may have escaped your notice, but I am the head of the section."

"Yes, you are." She did not look at him.

He dragged his finger around the lip of the glass, the contact making a small squeak.

"Any information that you would share with Tom also comes under my purview."

She gave a silent nod. He dipped his head, encouraging her to reveal her task. She hesitated.

"Ruth…."

"He wanted me to find out who in the government is protecting Russell Vaughn."

It was over too quickly. There was a moment of slight disappointment that she had given up the information to him so easily, but he consoled himself with the thought that it was duty that made her acquiesce and not lack of willpower. If Sam could handle being interrogated by him than surely Ruth could hold out if the situation warranted. He sat back in his chair.

"I thought I made myself quite clear during the debriefing. The operation is closed."

"Yes, and I know that, but Vaughn is using his position as CEO of Petcal to launder money for a drug cartel. And he was shielded by the state."

"And I believe I said our fragile economy could not handle the head of a multinational corporation being swept up in a scandal."

"He broke the law, Harry."

"And the two of you are going to enact some sort of renegade justice?"

"No not renegade, but justice needs to be served.

"It's being dealt with at the highest level. They let me clean my house, I let them clean theirs."

"But he can't get away with it. Mirella died because of him."

"Don't give her a name," he commanded harshly. She sat back, stung by his words, blinking at the tone of his voice. He gritted his teeth, holding back his tongue. He didn't want to explain the necessity of keeping people faceless, of not investing in assets, how it made consequences easier to deal with. She wasn't ready for that lesson yet. All he could do was bring the conversation back. "If you want justice work for a barrister. What Tom wants is revenge."

"So we stand idly by?"

"The centre must hold. People must continue to have faith in government and institutions."

"But there are ways, things we can do…."

He couldn't help but give a tiny smile at her deviousness. "Yes, but it is not our job to mete out justice, only to provide information to those who can."

She looked at him, weighing his words.

"Trust me," he added. "I'm speaking from years of experience. Punishment will be delivered. Rafa has already been taken care of, and so will Vaughn. We are not always present to see it."

Without ceding to his point, she gestured to the frozen face on the screen. "Is that Tessa?"

"Yes."

"She looks formidable."

"She was a hard nosed agent, one of the best when she applied herself to the right side of the curve. Then she made up her own rules, got taken in by greed."

Turning away from the screen, she looked back at him.

"Are we on the right side of the curve, Harry?"

He levelled a look at her. She was baiting him, trying to catch him out, underscoring that by letting Vaughn go free they were no better than Tessa.

"I understand the desire to strike back, believe me, I do. The time will come where it will be merited but not for strangers. We look after our people. Only our own." He looked down at the glass and rotated it a half turn with one finger. "You may also recall that I said the next person who steps out of line will be gone."

With one raised brow, he communicated a wordless arrangement - play by his rules and he would protect her; go after Vaughn and she was on her own. There was no response, only a reflective silence as she deciphered his meaning. He studied her, and for the first time wondered if he had actually gotten the better end of the deal, trading Tessa in for this woman. Shifting his focus, he found her eyes studying him, the dimness of the light muting their usual intense blue. She glanced away, her gaze landing on the crest behind him; Regnum Defende. After a moment, they were drawn back to him, by what force, he did not know, but something had shifted. The room settled back into its earlier stillness, the silence enveloping them both in secret alliance. He waited for her to look away but she didn't. The need for words was replaced by a gauzy strand of understanding weaving between them. She had accepted his bargain. She would not pursue Vaughn. His lips pursed as he suppressed a small smile. He had drawn her into his world of varying shades of grey, if only for the immediate. His chest expanded with a long, slow breath of triumph. The faint rustle of his shirt caught her attention, and her eyes dropped to his open collar. The crease between her brow softened, and the line of her mouth eased. His own eyes fell, following the neckline of her blouse. The red blouse. The veil of her lashes lifted back up to him, catching his stare before he could look away. As if in surrender, his fingers fell away from the glass. There was no conversation laced with coy smiles, no touch to the sleeve, no casual flick of her hair, all she gave was a slight tilt to her head. And her eyes. Pupils large and dark in the half light, opening up, pulling him in. Without realising it, his breathing stopped and he stepped into the blue depth of her gaze, arms relaxing, shoulders lowering, the need for air vanishing. Seconds ticked on, stretching to minutes, the subdued light from the wall sconces illuminating them, leaving the rest of the world in darkness. In the stillness of time, they were the only two people that existed. At that moment if she were to ask, what tales of his secret self would he divulge?

She blinked. He breathed. The room stirred.

Harry cleared his throat. Unsure what had come over him, he inhaled deeply. The room hummed and his mind cleared, bringing him back to his previous thoughts. He could make something of her. All she needed was a shell; wearing one's heart a sleeve inevitably meant the loss of it. If only he could get her out from under Tom's spell. But that was for another day. He straightened up and poured himself another scotch.

"I'd offer you a drink but I only have one glass."

"That's alright, I don't much care for scotch."

"I know." He took a sip and looked at her over the rim.

"Ah, you're dismissing me."

"Go home, Ruth. Forget about this life for one night."

Placing her hands on the table, she pushed herself up from the chair, and without any further word, left the room. The whisper of her skirt faded as she walked away. He took up the remote and shut off the screen. If only he could turn off the world, forget about this life for one night. But the status quo had been preserved; everything was as it should be, and he was left alone.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 - Each Man Kills The Thing He Loves

The world careened to a sudden halt. Harry had been on this ride before, but his mind still stuttered at the sudden reversal of fortune. The sounds of Grid became no more than white noise in his ears as he focused his attention on the woman in front of him. Ruth stood before him, eyes alight, a smile still lingering on her face after she had blithely shared what she thought was a humorous piece of intel. Mickey "The Shark" Carhaisus was dead. She had absolutely no clue of the ramifications of her findings. Tom was chasing a dead man. Everything that Harry had dreaded had finally come to pass. The last finger clinging to the cliff of reason had been pried away, and Tom had broken. Harry had no idea what his officer was up to, the only conclusion he could form was that Tom's mind had snapped, finally sliding into the depths of conspiracy theories and paranoia. He had fought that conclusion as long as he could. On one hand, it was a great relief, with the last pretence gone he could take action, but it left him without a foundation, the one person he had trusted the most had crumbled. His mind ran through a dozen scenarios, unable to settle on a concrete plan of action. He couldn't do it alone, he needed a sounding board, but all of his field officers were scattered to the wind. There was only her. Ruth looked at him, curiously watching the as the wheels of his mind turned. He latched onto her as a drowning man does a life buoy.

"Come. Now."

There was no hesitation on her part this time, his command obeyed without question, and he took small solace in the sound of her hurried steps following him as he strode down the corridor. There was barely time for her grab her coat before he whisked her off the Grid. It was a risk bringing her into his confidence, but he had no choice. Danny and Zoe were missing and he dreaded to think that they too might be involved in Tom's scheme; he needed to shore up the base, pull his team in one by one. It would be a test. If he could convince Ruth that Tom had gone rogue, he could make the case to anyone. It would show him exactly where her loyalties lay.

They hit the pavement outside of Thames House at a fast trot, Ruth walking a half a pace behind him, her feet moving in double time to his long strides.

"Where are we going?" she asked, slightly breathless.

He didn't respond, barely hearing her, formulating the words he would use to convince her of his plan.

"Harry, please slow down."

He relented to her request, slackening his pace as they headed toward the embankment. The bench was empty, thank goodness. It was always a mistake to rely on totems of luck, but he had taken a particular liking to that spot, though he couldn't pinpoint the reason. Many a private discussion had been held at his ad hoc office, conversations best held outside the prying ears of the Grid.

Not waiting on ceremony, he sat down before she did, taking a moment to compose himself. Ruth sat at a discreet distance, adjusting the folds of her coat as she caught her breath. The sun flitted in and out from between the clouds, a gentle breeze sweeping up from the river. As he listened to the rhythmic lapping of the water, he understood why he was drawn to that spot; it calmed him. Out from under the glaring lights and pressure of the Grid, he could order his thoughts. The urgency of the situation abated and his plan of action crystallised. She patiently waited, serenely sitting beside him, the location seemingly having the same effect on her, tempering her usual nervous fidgeting. He took a deep breath. He spoke to her in a measured tone, free of hyperbole, and with a few choice sentences he brought her over to his side. The words though well-crafted were honest and they hit the mark. It had been easier than he had anticipated. It was as he suspected; her worship of Tom was already faltering. He pressed his advantage.

"I told him to stay away from that Dale woman. Am I correct in assuming that he did not heed my advice?"

She swallowed before answering, hinting at a lingering thread of allegiance to Tom, which he could not fault.

"I believe so."

It was whispered with a hint of regret, and he gave her a sidelong glance, noting her muted tone. It was always a certain kind of torture to see the object of one's affections chose someone else. He could use that to his advantage.

"She's involved in this somehow," he continued. "We'll have to pull her in. Find out what she knows. I'm going to need something concrete to persuade Grosvenor Square that we need a chat."

"Alright."

"Danny found a cache of fake passports, see if there is a connection with her. Delve into her finances Whatever you have to do."

"It's never easy investigating a CIA officer. They'll know I'm poking around. They may cover things up."

"I have every confidence that you can break through their defences without them even knowing."

He paused for a moment before calculating his next step, wondering how far he could push her.

"When we bring her in, I want you to be in the interrogation room with me."

"Me?" She looked at him with disbelief. "I don't know anything about interrogation."

"It's high time you learned."

"I'm an analyst, Harry."

"Yes, but you're also a woman, she might see you as an ally, more willing to divulge secrets."

There was something almost insidious about bringing Ruth along. It made perfect sense to have a female in the room but he was hoping the analyst might go a little further in her investigations to bring down this particular subject. The experience would also help to sharpen her teeth, build a little more callous to her.

"What's going to happen to Tom?" she asked.

"We are going to do our best to save him. If I send out a warrant it may stop him from doing something he might later regret.

Looking out over the river, she inhaled shakily. "I can't believe he would do this."

Harry looked out in the same direction. "Even the best can be taken in by a pretty face."

"What if it's nothing. What if they're just..." She took a breath before finishing the thought. "Just in love."

"If that's true, it's the worst excuse for his actions. Never, ever let personal feelings get involved."

"Yes, I know. I found that out the hard way."

Harry's head swivelled around to her, taken aback by her words. Was she talking about Tom, or was there someone else. His mind buzzed with a myriad of questions. Why was he continually surprised to find out that this woman had a past, and even more dismaying, one with the opposite sex. In his mind, she did not exist outside the Grid, she was there for him, ever present at her workstation, her expertise on tap for his use. He narrowed his focus, studying her with new sun broke out from behind a cloud, its rays warming the bench and he realised that it was the first time he had seen her in natural light. Contrary to his usual assessment of her looks, her hair was not completely dark but held a number of lighter strands, the rays of the sun exposing their tones. Her complexion appeared healthier than the pale hue she usually wore under the florescent lights of the Grid. He was heartened to see that the warmer weather had rid her of that ridiculous white coat, but she still wore lighter beige one. What would it take to completely transform her? Overcome by curiosity, he wanted to dig deeper, peel away her layers, find out more about this woman. Where did she go when she left him? What did she do with her time? Who did she spend it with? He wanted to ask her what exactly she had found out the hard way but there was no time. Everything he needed to know about her was right before him, anything else would venture into the personal and that always clouded one's decisions. He pulled himself back once more appraising her with a managerial eye.

"If things do get messy," he continued, "Don't be afraid to take command."

"What do you mean?"

"I've no idea where Danny and Zoe are, and if I'm called away, it could be down to you."

She blinked as the possible weight of responsibility sank in. She nodded her understanding.

"We need to get back."

He stood from the bench, not waiting for her agreement, and she arose without question. Her acquiescence pleased him. She was his. For now. The question was how far would she go for him?

The answer arrived far sooner than he had expected, delivered to him on a tray in his hospital room. But then everything becomes accelerated when one lives a year in a week.

If he had an ounce of sense he would be back in that hospital room instead of sitting in his office. His arm burned with the seven fires of hell. Gritting his teeth, Harry manoeuvred his good hand around the top of the plastic bottle, his thumb fruitlessly prying at the top.

Damn child proof lid.

Beads of perspiration formed on his brow, the skin under his collar growing clammy as he winced with concentration, trying to align the tabs. He cast a furtive eye out to the Grid, praying that no one would see him in his current state. It had been madness to return so soon but there had been no other choice. Mace was circling the Section like a vulture, ready to dive in at the first hint of blood. Harry grimaced; he had survived a bullet, it would take more than Mace to bring him down. He directed his anger into the plastic. With a soft pop, the lid came off and the pills spilt onto the desk bringing forth a string of curses. He picked up three and popped them in his mouth. His hand shook as he poured a small measure of scotch into a tumbler. A drop wouldn't hurt him. He washed down the pills, the mellow burn of the scotch offsetting the fire in his arm. He tipped in a bit more liquid. One drink wouldn't kill him. There was a stamp of immortality in being shot and living to tell about it.

He sat for a moment, steadying his breath, bringing his forearm to his temple as he wiped away the perspiration with his shirt sleeve. He looked at the scotch. Just one more. Medicinal purposes. This time he poured himself a much larger dose. He let it slid over his lips and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He'd been running on adrenaline but now that Carmen Joyce was dead and Tom exonerated, and all the endorphins had vanished from his system. All he wanted was a bed. He took another sip. Ah, that was much better. The grip of pain loosened and his muscles relaxed.

Even though the scotch dulled the pain, his other senses remained on alert. Someone stood in his doorway. The swish of her skirt always gave her away.

"Harry?"

He kept his eyes closed, thinking that she might leave.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

No such luck.

"Having a scotch."

"Aren't you on painkillers?"

"I needed something to wash them down."

The tread of her footsteps told him she was nearing his desk and he belatedly remembered the pills lying out on in full view.

"Good God, Harry, how many have you taken?"

He opened his eyes a crack. "Two."

She picked up the bottle and read the label. "It says here to take one every six hours."

"I'll skip the next dose."

"That's not how it's done."

Moving around to his side of the desk, she started to pick up the pills one by one. He closed his eyes, listening to the soft tap of the tablets hitting the bottom of the bottle. A hint of a smile played on his lips. It was a strange sensation, to be taken care of. She was concerned for him. He inhaled a small breath, a surge of victory flowing through him. She was his, he could feel it. That day on the bench, he had gotten a promise of support from her and he would use it to draw her close. Tom was deposed, her hero had feet of clay, and Harry was ready to sweep up her loyalty.

She bent a little lower over his desk, searching for stray pills.

"You need to go home, Harry. Get some rest. Take a shower."

At her comment, he opened his eyes and found her shoulder close to his face.

"That's very personal, Ruth. Are you saying I smell?"

He probably did. They had bathed him in the hospital but he hadn't had a proper shower. She on the other hand, even at that late hour, smelled of a scent soothingly delicate, evoking a memory he couldn't quite place.

"Is there a support worker or someone coming to help you?"

"I don't know."

As she leaned further across the desk to retrieve a stray pill that had lodged itself underneath a pile of papers, the swell of her breasts came tantalisingly close to his face. He inhaled sharply in an effort to purge his mind. She stopped and looked at him.

"Are you alright?"

He leaned back as far as he could, his shoulders pressing into the chair in an effort to put as much distance as he could between them, a stab of pain serving to douse his thoughts.

"I understand that I have you to thank for calling everyone to the doghouse."

"I didn't know what else to do. It was chaos here. I knew we had to get everyone off the Grid."

"It was very prudent of you."

"It was pretty obvious Mace was taking advantage of the situation. I don't think we've seen the last of him."

"Unfortunately, I think you're correct." He watched as she found the lid a replace it on the bottle. "Getting that message to me about him was a stroke of brilliance."

"Thank you."

Putting down the bottle, she moved to liberate him of his glass, but his fingers closed tighter around the tumbler. There was a gentle tug on her part, but he did not relent. She gave him the look. He had come to recognise it. A little tilt to the head, a slight widening of the eyes, communicating disbelief.

"About your message ..." His mouth curved slightly. He should stop right there, and if he were completely sober he would, but in the dimness of his office, the opportunity was too irresistible. "When is it due?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Our child."

Her fingers froze and the colour drained from her face. He suppressed a smile.

"The nurse congratulated me. Said it was wonderful to see someone so much in love."

"Oh ... well," she swallowed, "I just said that in order to appeal to her romantic side."

Even in the hazy light, he could see a flush of red creeping across her cheeks.

"So, it's not true?"

She cleared her throat, the pitch of her voice rising a notch. "That I'm having your child?"

"That you're in love with me."

He was playing with her, teasing her in an effort to reclaim his humanity by connecting with another soul, a break from the tension of the past few days. She stood staring at him, her lips slightly parted, her lack of armour against him made apparent by her look of vulnerability. His mouth mirrored hers, and the suspicion came upon him that his teasing had hit a nerve. She cocked her head at him.

"Christine Dale said the same thing. That she was in love with Tom."

"And you think it was a ploy on her part? That she was lying?"

She shrugged her shoulders in response. "People say things under duress."

Her attempt at nonchalance intrigued him. He wanted to push her, find out if there was indeed a sliver of feeling for him. Pride and the possible ousting of another man in her affections compelled him. He couldn't help himself.

"Did you shed a tear for me, Ruth? Or just for Tom?"

Taken aback by his question, she paused before she responded.

"We thought Tom was dead."

"But I, on the other hand, had merely been shot."

"Of course, I was worried about you, but there wasn't even time to stop and think. Things were happening so quickly around here. Special Branch-"

Suddenly weary, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, letting her off the hook, resigning himself to the fact that he may never pull her completely away from Tom.

"It's alright, Ruth."

He thought she would leave, but was surprised when he felt the back of her hand press against his forehead.

"You're burning up."

Opening his eyes, his gaze came level with the neckline of her blouse. She leaned down towards him exposing an enticing swath of skin. In the burnished light, her complexion took on a dusky hue, as if she had been out in the sun. The charm of her necklace swung away from her throat, directing his eyes to her cleavage. There was a time when he had hated that necklace but for the life of him, he couldn't remember why. Lowering his eyes, he followed the row of buttons down the front the front of her blouse. The red blouse. A small sigh escaped his lips. Thoughts invaded his brain with stunning speed. Was her skin the same colour beneath the fabric? He had successfully navigated a childproof lid; surely he could manage a button or two. The bottom of the blouse flared slightly at her hip; his hand would fit nicely on that curve. He could place it there and draw her closer.

"I'll call for a car," she told him.

The sound of her voice barely penetrated his clouded mind. It was on the tip of his tongue to say come home with him, that he needed her help. There was no one to take care of him, only her. He knew he was succumbing to the pleasant concoction of scotch and painkillers, the lateness of the hour, and the red blouse. He searched the corners of his mind, pulling forth a reserve of restraint. It was a foolish fantasy that would only end in regret and recrimination and the possible loss of a brilliant analyst. He was a wounded, old man. The days of adrenaline-fueled trysts in the field were long gone, replaced by weeks of convalescence and paperwork. He swallowed his urgings and his pride.

"Yes, a car would be a good idea." He raised his eyebrows, attempting a stab at humour to erase their earlier conversation and bring things back to a more professional level. "It's not a spooks' taxi, is it?"

She gave him a tentative half smile. "No."

As she turned to leave, he spoke one last time.

"Thank you, Ruth, for standing by me."

Pausing at the door, she nodded and then continued on her way.

He closed his eyes and turned his concentration to the more immediate task of staving off oblivion. He would have to wait until he could collapse in the comfort of his own bed before giving reign to his illicit thoughts. It was merely the mixture of medication and alcohol that had fueled his inappropriate musings over his analyst. Only that, and nothing more.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - Waiting, Wide Awake

It was only during the quiet moments in his office that Harry heard the sound. A slow, steady tick audible at the edges of his perception, prominent when there was nothing else to occupy his mind. He had never been able to pinpoint the exact source of the sound and he wondered if it was the rotating spheres of the universe, or the slow passage of time, or his own heart, winding down, destined to one day to stop. At his childhood home in Reading, a clock had sat on the fireplace mantle, its smooth cherry veneer calling out to his boyish hands, much to the dismay of his mother. He would run his fingers along the sloping curve of the case, fascinated by how it would slowly lose seconds, minutes and hours. There was a brass key in his father's desk and every month, with a careful turn of the wrist, he would wind life back into the clock, and it once again continued to tick along in its stately elegance. Was there such a key for a man when his heart slowed down?

The ticking in his office stopped.

His mind turned over to thoughts of Zoe. She had just left his office taking with her that air of self-assurance that only she possessed. Zoe, the daughter he never had. Harry blinked, recognising the error of the thought. He had a daughter, though at that moment she was no more than a ghost. It would seem though that he still had a vestige of paternal instinct, for he felt a certain protectiveness toward Zoe and her choice of potential partner. Will North. Always something appealing about a scoundrel. It was with a degree of envy that Harry had regarded his officer and the life that lay before her. Young, confident, beautiful, they all started out that way. It never lasted; bit by bit they became corroded on the inside. The loss of self, edges blurring, hovering in operational limbo. As they were now, playing the waiting game, hoping that word of the Red Mercury would be enough to tempt someone. He had told Zoe to live her life while they were waiting. He was actually relieved that she had filled out her S-24, especially after the debacle with the Italian banker. Obviously, she had learned her lesson. Have your potential partner vetted by the service or risk finding out that your lover is the target of an investigation.

He was hard pressed to remember the last time he had filled out one of those interminable forms. He had not bothered when dating Monica; he was of the mind that he had obtained a rank above the service digging into his personal life. Besides, it was hard enough in his line of work to meet people without scaring them off with vetting procedures. He wouldn't admit that his dalliances never lasted long enough to warrant the paperwork. There was always hope for change. Last Saturday, during the interval of La Traviata, he had found himself conversing with a delightful woman. Karen something or other. It wouldn't take too much to unearth her subscription details, casually run into her again at another performance. His shoulder was on the mend, surely he was capable of a drink and a little conversation. That's all he needed really, intelligent conversation with a comparable intellect. And a pleasing face. Someone to wind him up, remind him that he was alive, that he still had a few good years left. Yes, that's what he would do. Heed his own advice and live his life while they were waiting.

A soft tap echoed on the panel of his closed door and he shook himself from his personal thoughts to find Ruth standing at the threshold of his office.

"Do you have a moment?"

"Don't tell me you're looking for permission for socialisation too?"

It had been an off the cuff remark on his part, his mind still on the previous subject, an attempt to keep the mood light and he thought she would take it as such. Pausing at his words, her brow furrowed while she puzzled out his meaning. Giving him a confused look, she shook her head.

"Why would you ask that?"

Not wanting to disclose the conversation with Zoe or his own thoughts for that matter, he attempted a bid at deflection.

"It's not such an extraordinary question, is it?" He closed up the file on Will North, hoping his actions would add to the casualness to the conversation. "Surely, you must have been a date since your secondment."

"Oh..." Her mouth formed a word but her mind quickly discarded it. "Well, I…" A look of panic crossed her face.

An image flashed in his mind of her on a date, of the deeds he had done on past dates, and suddenly he didn't want to know the details of her personal life.

"Any news about Fly Trap?" he queried, abruptly changing the subject.

"No, still nothing."

Instead of immediately revealing the reason for her visit, she remained standing before him, a tilt to her head. She was still processing his earlier comment, a flippant remark on his part that she now parsed with her analytical mind. He should know better than to try and slip anything past her. Had he inadvertently revealed something about himself? His officer's private lives may be up for scrutiny but his life was sacrosanct. Keep everything contained, colleagues at a distance, remain elusive and cement one's power. As he frowned back at her, waiting, her evasion of his original question gnawed at him. Perhaps it was he who had stumbled onto something in her personal life. Was she seeing someone under the radar? She may not have learned from Zoe's experience. He would send out a subtle feeler, tap Sam for information. The young officer still owed him from her unwitting dupe by Tessa. Tired of waiting he prodded Ruth along.

"What is it then?"

She cast a furtive eye out to the Grid before closing the door behind her. "It's about Professor Roberts."

"Has he buckled?"

"No, no. It's more …." She swallowed, the pause only increasing Harry's impatience as to what she could possibly be talking about. "It's more how Tom is handling him."

"Tom is doing an excellent job."

Stepping closer, she placed her fingers on the edge of his desk and lowered her voice a fraction.

"Is it possible to be a bit too enthusiastic when dealing with an asset?"

"Roberts was a sleeper. He knew full well what he was getting into even though he played coy with me."

"It's not him I'm worried about. " She quickly blurted out the words coming to the nub of her visit. "It's Tom."

Harry took a moment to appreciate the significance of her confession. She was coming to him regarding Tom. It filled him with a secret pleasure, knowing that she had gone over his officer's head. The feeling was tempered slightly by the fact that she still felt obligated to protect Tom. Hoping to coax more information from her, he rose from his seat and ventured around to the side of the desk where she stood. From force of habit, his fingers reached to adjust his waist coat only to find he wasn't wearing one. That morning, arm still aching from the gunshot wound, he had decided to forgo the added exertion of putting on a vest. Which he now regretted, standing before her bereft of that extra layer of protection. Though why he would need protection from this woman he wasn't sure. Leaning back against the desk, he crossed his arms and lowered his voice.

"What are you worried about? Specifically?"

"I'm not sure if Tom is quite back to himself."

"He lost his balance for a bit but he's back on the beam now. He's a highly capable officer."

"He's being rather...zealous with Roberts."

"Perhaps he feels the need to prove himself. He may be overcompensating. He'll come back. I've already checked in with him, he's up to running Fly Trap."

"I think he might actually be enjoying the chaos that he is creating."

He took a moment to absorb the strangeness of the conversation. It was not a discussion to have with an intelligence officer, it was a conversation he would normally have with his Section Chief. But here she was in his office pushing against the boundaries of her position. He weighed the wisdom of letting her continue.

"It's all part of breaking Roberts." He gave a sweeping motion of his hand, dismissing her worry.

"Yes, and I know that …." Moving a fraction closer, she canted her head towards him. "But in doing that, we're destroying a man's life."

The underlying meaning of her words was not lost on him.

"Whose life are you talking about?"

Their eyes held. He knew exactly who she was talking about. She gave him a tiny nod, affirming his suspicion that they were indeed discussing Tom.

"In destroying another do we destroy ourselves?"

"Now is not the time for moral equivalencies." He straightened up from the desk, signalling an end to the discussion. "I don't need a conscience, Ruth."

"We all need a conscience, Harry." The corner of her mouth moved with a wry tilt.

He gave her a levelling eye, underscoring his meaning. He did not need _her_ to be his conscience. Unwilling to give up, she continued.

"Is it right to ask a man to rip someone from his life? Tear a family apart?

"For the good of the country, yes."

She inhaled sharply, determined to sway him. "You're pushing him to the edge."

"Your concerns have been duly noted."

He made to move away, but she stood in his path. Pressing closer to him, cajoling him with her proximity, she spoke in a lowered tone. "He's going to break."

He narrowed his eyes, his voice descending to a harsh whisper."What would you have me do?"

"Pull him out," she pleaded.

"You're too close to the situation." The muscle at his jaw flexed as he studied her face, seeing intervention for what it was. "Don't let your feelings get in the way of the operation."

The conversation came to an abrupt halt. She drew her head back as if he had stung her. It was not a direct accusation, but the look on her face told him she understood his meaning. Her mouth parted and he thought she might refute the idea that she had any emotional investment in Tom, but she did not.

"I'm speaking from experience." Her tone was cold. "I saw it happen at GCHQ. Two people died because of an unravelling of conscience."

Harry looked down at the carpet and inhaled slowly. "What do you think of Adam Carter?"

The sudden reversal of subject matter took her by surprise. "I haven't had much of a chance to speak with him."

He waited, knowing that he would not have to spell things out for her. Lines of thought formed on her brow, the reason for his question regarding Adam slowly dawning on her.

"He's your ringer, isn't he?" Her face fell as she arrived at the conclusion. "You didn't need me to tell you that Tom was going to break, you're already anticipating it."

His silence was his affirmation. He leaned into her one last time.

"Let's just keep this conversation between us, shall we?"

A secret shared always served to strengthen a bond. Canting her head one last time, she implored him with her eyes to rethink his decision about Tom. Her irises were a cerulean blue, as clear as her convictions. He remained unmoved. Recognising that she could not convince a stone, she turned and left the office.

.

Morality was a fragile constraint in their line of work, easily snapped, and with one last grasp at integrity, Tom Quinn broke. He had not fully recovered from the mess left behind by Herman Joyce, and even though Harry had hoped against hope that his best officer would find his way back, he knew that Tom was lost. Ten years together, gone, no farewell celebration, no reminiscing over a drink, only the sincere wish that Tom would find happiness out there in the real world.

Harry watched the screen as the lone figure stood outside of Thames House, looking back one last time at the life he was leaving behind. His lips tugged slightly at the bittersweet moment, saddened by the loss, optimistic that Tom would find a better life.

He glanced up and saw a pair of eyes trained on him. Mouth grim, face hard, she did nothing to disguise her feelings. Even from a distance, the wave of blame emanating from Ruth's desk was palatable. With her look, she robbed him of any sense of accomplishment he had felt over managing the situation with the minimum of fallout. There would be no charges against Tom, no disciplinary hearing, Harry had even managed to secure him a pension. There was no recognition of that in her gaze. Her hero had been defeated, and instead of seeing Harry as the de facto replacement, she only saw him as the perpetrator of Tom's demise. Unable to meet her eyes, he looked away, chastising himself for not staring her down. She was only an analyst unaware of the larger picture, the unbearable weight of discharging Tom from his duty. He drew the side of his cheek between his teeth. Someday she would understand the reason for his actions; that in order to save someone you had to let them go. Until then, she could sit in the safety of her desk judging him. The operation had been a success, that was all that mattered.

.

Sensing the imminent storm, the staff of the Grid scurried to the safety of their stations. With the fury of a cyclone, Harry walked past her desk, the force of his stride disturbing a pile of papers, errant pieces falling to the floor.

"Ruth."

Dark and low, one word was all he needed, nothing more. So intent was he on reaching his office, that he did not see the quick hands of his analyst moving to still the flutter of the papers on her desk, or that she was already halfway out of her chair before he had called her name, anticipating the summons. She followed him into the lion's den of his office, her only defence, the pen in her hand. He stared at the puny weapon. It might be mightier than the sword but it would not protect her from the lashing of his tongue. He let her wait, watching how the muscles in her neck tensed, bracing for the onslaught.

"The next time you discover something about my family, I would appreciate it if you came to me first."

"Adam is the officer in charge of the operation."

"And I am the officer in charge of Adam!"

It was all too much. Her pitiful defence only added to his aggrieved state. Apparently, in the absence of Tom, she had found another man in whom to invest her loyalty. How foolish he had been. During the previous operation, she had come directly to him when Adam had asked her to look into Harakat, the bookseller. He had thought that it was a sign, a potential meeting of the minds, but he had been wrong. It could be his own paranoia but it smacked of revenge; she had been waiting for the perfect moment to get him back at him for the dismissal of Tom. Rationally, he knew that she was probably not the kind of person, but rationality was nowhere to be found. She had uncovered his weakness, exposed his Achilles heel. And it rankled him immensely. The team now knew his failure as a father. The fact that Ruth had discovered it made it even worse.

"Harry," her tone was measured. "Catherine could be one of Swift's agents for the November Committee."

"That is bloody ridiculous. And if you knew anything about her you would know that too."

"And what exactly do you know about her?" She stood her ground, sparring back with a none too subtle jab.

"She's my daughter. That's all I need to know." He turned from her, with the idea of sitting down, but he was too wound up to settle in one place."I'm pulling her out. Any mention of her name needs to be scrubbed from the records."

"You can't do that."

"I'm the head of this Section, I can do whatever I want."

Even to his own ears, his words sounded petulant. She stared at him reproachfully.

"If you pull her out, it might tip Ashworth off that we're monitoring him."

"How you do think it looks, a senior member of M15, having a daughter involved with someone from Israeli military intelligence."

"I would say it looks pretty bad." The corners of her mouth twitched as she tried to subvert a smile."

"I'm so glad you find this funny."

"I don't."

"Do you know what's funny? A ticket back to GCHQ."

"Harry…."

"If you were as intrepid in your investigations of Ashworth as you are at delving into my personal life, this operation would be over by now." He had meant the last sentence as a sarcastic rebuke, but the shifting of her eyes told him that he had inadvertently stumbled onto something. His blood ran cold."You've been looking into my file."

"I was merely corroborating facts-"

"You looked into a file of a senior officer." He stepped toward her, coming as close as he could without touching her, his face inches from hers.

"I didn't know if you were aware of her relationship Gilad Laskar."

"And you thought it best to reveal that in front of everyone?"

"I thought if it was presented in a professional setting…" she shrugged her shoulders, unable to finish the sentence.

"Did you feel a sense of achievement in humiliating me? Revealing to the entire team that I have no idea what is going on in my own daughter's life."

"That wasn't my intent."

"I don't bear all the blame." He shook a warning finger at her. " It's Catherine who wants nothing to do with me."

"She might not feel that now."

"How would you know? You have no idea the complexities of the situation. How could you understand, you don't even have children."

If he had not been so wrapped up in his anger, he might have been aware of the insensitivity of saying such a comment to a woman of a certain age, but as it was, he carried on, indifferent to the look of hurt that crossed Ruth's face.

"But I am a daughter." She looked toward the ceiling before amending the thought. "Was a daughter. And I understand the need for a father's-"

"Validation," he interjected with scorn.

"Love," she stated back to him, plainly.

It was said with such artless sincerity, that it stopped him in his tracks. The walls of his anger crumbled. How did she do that? With a simple word, she stripped him of his righteous wrath. The last of his ire left him in a huff of air, replaced by a constricted feeling in his chest. During the whole period when he thought she was a mole and the subsequent revelation of the truth, he had been so vigilant in his dealings with her. He had let down his guard, and she had found a way to undermine him by using a back door.

"Why, Ruth? Why?" The words came from somewhere deep inside of him, coloured with disappointment and betrayal. "Why didn't you come to me first?"

Her eyes widened and her mouth parted slightly, cognizant that her actions had affected him more acutely than she had previously thought. Her eyes darted around the room, unable to look at him as if realising that he was made of more than anger.

"I thought you might be too close to the situation," she whispered.

"Is that what I can expect from you now? My words parroted back to me? "

"No, I-"

"I expected more from you." He cut her off with the flatness of his voice.

Having revealed too much, he turned his back on her and moved to sit down. She remained glued to her spot, crestfallen, her hand reaching out in a half gesture and then sinking back to her side again. He sank down in his chair, covering his eyes with one hand while he waved the other at her dismissively. There was a brief moment of hesitation before she moved, and when she finally did, the air of the room seemed to leave with her.

He let out a heavy sigh. He had shown a weakness, a foolish moment of vulnerability. He clenched his fist trying to regain his composure. Still holding the residue of anger, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and flipped through the files. Finding the one he was looking for, he pulled it out with a grunt of satisfaction. If she could peruse his file, he would scour hers. Flipping open the folder, he was met with an unflattering identification photo. It did not do her justice. It did not convey the subtly shifting nuances of her face, or the curious tilt of her head, or the blue of her eyes. He found her date of birth. It was as he suspected; Ruth was closer to his daughter's age than she was to him. He glanced further down the page, seeing that Ruth's father had died when she was a girl. Catherine had only been eight when he had divorced her mother. Perhaps Ruth merely saw him as a father figure. Perhaps that's why he was so hard on her because of his own failings as a father. He sat back in his chair, closing his eyes as he sorted through his thoughts. Not usually one for self-awareness and introspection, he found himself looking inward. Why did it matter what she thought about him? Why did he feel betrayed by her? Exasperated, he closed the cover of the folder. He didn't want to know how old she was, he didn't want to admit his own age. He didn't want to think of her as a daughter, he wanted… he wanted….

The room fell quiet, and his mind stilled. His breathing dropped deep into his chest, and his heart awakened, beating slowly. At the edge of his senses, the sound growing increasingly stronger, the ticking started once more.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 -Looking For a Long Term Partner

Through the glass, he continued to watch the watcher. It was from force of habit, he told himself, that his eyes gravitated to her desk with such regularity, a holdover from when he thought she was a mole, even though he was for the most part satisfied with her loyalty. To the department at least, if not to him. He made no effort to change the routine of his observation, it was like a reflex; breath, blink, turn to the spot, only with the eyes though, never the whole body that would give too much away. The activity of the Grid churned around him but the analyst remained a constant, never far from the orbit of her desk. The predictability of her moves was a comfort in the hectic pace of his universe.

That morning, as his eyes wandered over to the touchstone that was her desk, his glance was diverted by a large bouquet of flowers, moving across the Grid as if by its own volition. The mirage was instantly dispelled by a glimpse of Sam's fair hair peeking up behind all the foliage. He studied the arrangement with a critical eye. Did men really send flowers anymore? He couldn't remember the last time he had done so, indeed if he had ever sent flowers to a beloved. The only reason he could conceive of such an idea would be as a decoy during an operation or as camouflage for a surveillance device. In his private life, he could think of no occasion where he had sent flowers. Perhaps that was one of the reasons his marriage had soured. Although, the strength of twenty-four long stem roses would hardly have been enough to buttress up a marriage sagging under the weight of suspicion and infidelity.

The flowers stopped at Ruth's desk and for a moment he thought she was the recipient, but the bouquet carried on, eventually ending up at Zoe's station. Harry closed his eyes and drew in a breath of resignation. Will North. Zoe was marrying that man. It was all transpiring far too quickly for his liking. Harry silently cursed the fact that he did not rule a feudal state, and therefore Zoe did not need his permission to wed. Yes, the man had been vetted and stamped with the required approval of the Service but that did not mean that Harry had to approve. He drummed his fingers on his desk, ruminating on Zoe's potential. She was shaping up to be a fine officer, displaying more confidence in the wake of Tom's departure. Given a few more years, he could mould her into a top notch spook. But marriage...that was an unknown variable. Once married the chances of remaining in the Service decreased dramatically, especially if one married outside the circle of knowledge. He knew first hand how hard it was. In the beginning, there was a veil of mystery that excited one's partner, but as time wore on, operations encroached one's personal life, legends changed, becoming more demanding, leading to compromising positions, ultimately culminating in the choice between agreeing to assignments or having a stalled career. It was always better to be unfettered.

Various members of the Grid congregated around Zoe's desk to admire the flowers, all save for one. Danny sat with his arms belligerently crossed, a sour look on his face. Then again, relationships inside the service were fraught with their own minefields, especially if they were one sided. He could hardly fault Danny for hating Zoe's fiance, but the pit of gloom that the officer was sinking into was becoming counter productive. Harry had the perfect remedy. Counter to Ruth's idea that sending Zoe and Danny out on an isolated ferry in the North Sea would be fractious, Harry thought it was an excellent plan. They would either drown each other or rekindle their bond, hopefully, the latter. Enforced proximity always had a way of bringing people together.

With the constancy of a pendulum, Harry's gaze swung back to Ruth's station but instead of swinging away, his eyes settled there, caught off guard by the expression on her face. Her head was tilted, her mouth held in a soft turn, and he inhaled softly, struck by her beauty. It was not the first time such a reaction had snuck up on him, but it always caught him when he was least prepared. He was more apt to cast a roaming eye at Zoe or Sam, but at that moment Ruth's face, framed in a halo of light, free of wrinkled thought or worry, looked almost ethereal. She sat with the stillness of a monument, giving Harry ample time to decipher her gaze. It was a look of unfettered longing, and it wasn't directed at him or any other person on the Grid but at the bouquet of flowers. Zoe smiled and chatted away, remaining oblivious to Ruth's gaze, but he remained intently aware of it.

As he sat in his quiet office, conversation buzzing on the other side of the glass, it dawned on him that he had two problems. The first being Zoe. If she left he would lose a crack officer, years of investment and training wasted, she was a pillar of the team, and truthfully, he was quite fond of her. Secondly, Ruth. The usually chipper analyst, brimming with eagerness to share information, was now subdued, her quieter mood underscored by brown tops and dark cardigans. All of it leading him to believe that she had become disenchanted. He had his suspicions as to the source of her discontent. Zoe's impending nuptials were probably a factor, but there was another unfulfilled yearning in the analyst's life. Harry knew this because he had his own little bird. He had tasked Sam a few weeks ago to keep an eye on Ruth and she had delivered a salient piece of information. Ruth was paying an inordinate amount of attention to the monitoring of one John Fortescue. Harry subtly opened a file folder, the dossier on the man. Early thirties, Oxford educated, PhD in economics, on the board of various charities, patron of the Opera and Ballet. Harry quickly closed the file in disgust. Well, he couldn't blame her, but just like Danny's yearning for Zoe, this was a one sided infatuation. The service was rife with tales of agents falling in love with the subjects of their surveillance, some going so far as to manufacture supposed chance encounters, but to his knowledge, none of these stories included a happy ending. Besides, Ruth would never go that far.

Or would she?

No, impossible. A woman who continually questioned him on the ethical ramifications of his decisions would not cross into the grey area herself. Although, such a step would serve to bring her into the brotherhood. It always began with a small infraction, and then another, stretching the boundaries of one's moral compass, seeing how far one could go. A soft smile played on his lips. A part of him wanted her to break the rules, defy the code of conduct she had set for herself, and step into his world. Taste from the cup so she would not be so quick to judge his own deeds. All the greatest spies had a streak of rebellion in them. If he was to give her reign, how far would she go? He could say it was part of her training. He would play it by ear.

Sliding the dossier of John Fortescue under a pile of papers, he did not pause to reflect that only months earlier he had been determined to rid the Section of the same woman. The only thing at the forefront of his mind now was keeping a brilliant analyst. There was no other reason, he wasn't emotionally invested in her, no more than any other of his staff. The Section had been through enough upheaval with the departure of Tom, and it was paramount that he keep them together as a unit. Adam was fitting in nicely, but the team lacked the cohesion that had manifested under Tom. If keeping the department together meant a little dabbling into the personal life of an officer he would do it. For the sake of national security.

.

It was a kill order, wrapped up and presented to them in political double speak. It had come as no surprise to Harry, or to Adam for that matter. They had both played the game long enough to guess the inevitable conclusion of the ride on the North Sea ferry. Giving Adam a cursory glance of understanding, Harry left it to the new Section chief to talk Danny through the ethical minefield of eliminating Victor Newland. Harry sat back in the briefing room chair, taking a moment to silently congratulate himself. He had chosen well with Adam. His new Section Chief did not have the same intensity as Tom, but there was a studied nonchalance to Adam that concealed a razor sharp mind. Harry fought back a smile of approval as he rose from the briefing room table. This was not a time to celebrate. He detested wetwork, it was an egregious use of his officer, but if Newland's knowledge of plague bacteria made it to the North Koreans, it could very well lead to a global disaster. Harry had been in Danny's shoes. It was all part of the initiation into the upper echelons of their craft. As he left the briefing room, he shuttered his mind, closing down the darker memories of when he had carried out such a deed. It was only a matter of convincing himself that he was not an assassin but a keeper of the realm.

The evening was drawing on as he stepped out into the dim blue light of the corridor. Further down the passage, a flash of white caught his eye, and he looked up, puzzled as to who was left on the Grid. At the end of the hall stood Ruth dressed in a white wool coat. Her head jerked towards him giving the impression she had been caught out. His eyes hooked onto hers, immediately sensing her guilt, over what he did not know. With no word of acknowledgement, she quickly turned in order to make a retreat.

"Ruth!"

In the emptiness of the Grid, his voice boomed off the walls, stopping her in her tracks. Her body wavered, pulled to leave by the impetus for self-preservation, but held in place by the power of his voice. What was she up to? He would cast out a net and see what he could catch. With a few slow steps, he walked towards her as he spoke.

"Off for the night are we?"

"Ah, yes." Her eyes darted to the area past his shoulder, widening slightly with panic as she realised she needed to pass him to reach the exit. "I thought since we have Newland's accounts sorted, it would be safe for me to leave."

"It's never safe to leave." His voice was serious, but he couldn't help a little crinkle from forming at the corner of his eye.

She gave him a weak smile before she inhaled shakily. "Have a good night then."

She moved to continue down the corridor, but just as she was about to walk past his shoulder, he spoke.

"What do you think of this Will North?"

Stopping beside him, she made a half hearted gesture towards the end of the hall. "I...um..."

"I'm not keeping you from anything, am I?" he asked innocently, knowing full well that he most certainly was detaining her from something that probably involved the Fortescue bloke, which would no doubt lead to any number of violations to privacy statutes.

"No, I was just going home." She raised her eyebrows at him, just as innocently.

Liar. Though he couldn't say it aloud.

Keeping his face neutral and his hands deep in his pockets, he turned his full attention towards her. She took a tiny step back and lowered her gaze. He sighed inwardly at her lack of guile. She needed to follow the first tenet of subterfuge; always maintain eye contact. Instead, she was making a study of his tie. He was going to have to work on that, give her a few pointers.

"I was wondering if he was suitable," he continued his line of questioning about Will North. "Wanted to get your take on things."

"Why do you ask?" she stuttered.

Yes, she was hiding something. He wondered how quickly he could dismantle her. Perhaps he would draw it out just a little bit longer. Watch her squirm.

"Curiosity."

He lowered his voice, sliding the word underneath her conscience, wondering if it would cause her to spill her own misdeeds. She held onto her silence, her eyes falling to the floor. He pressed on.

"Curious as to what sort of people my officers are having.-" He cut himself off, stopping just in time to leave the word sitting on his tongue. He had wanted to say sex, but held back and cast about for a more suitable word. "Having ... relations with."

Her eyes flew up to his, and with a quick blink masked a look of alarm. Even though he had changed the word, it had still come out dripping with sex. Oh well, they were adults. His lips twitched. If her sensibilities were offended, she needed to bolster them up. She had heard him say far worse. She swallowed and found her voice.

"I couldn't say, I haven't met him."

"You don't have to meet someone to form an opinion of them."

Another arrow fired, grazing the target just enough to make her wonder if he was on to her. Go ahead, Ruth, he silently coaxed, subtly leaning into her, confess. Have done with this foolishness and get your mind back on your work. He would be lenient, thank her for confessing her transgressions before anything unfortunate happened, and send her home a little slap on the wrist.

She took a deep breath, letting her words spill forth.

"Will's brother knows that Zoe is a spy. He gave the photos of the Ashworth op to a newspaper."

Harry blinked at her. "Photos of Ashworth and his lover were leaked?"

"No, I stopped them. I had a ringer at the newspaper and he told me."

That was not the confession he had expected. He had been trawling for minnows and caught a whale. His mind changed track, moving on from Ruth's transgressions to mining material about Zoe.

"And what did you do with this information?"

"I gave it to Danny."

"But not Zoe?"

"No. And he hasn't told her."

"This is good. Very good."

Harry looked away, mulling over the discovery. Danny was still pining for Zoe and hated Will; he wouldn't sit on that information. The two agents were in a pressure cooker situation, trapped on the ferry, things were bound to spill over. And once Zoe learned the truth about her fiance ... well, Harry knew first hand what it was like to find out information on loved one from an outside source. It made the blood boil. It would strike at the heart of Zoe's integrity. She would not allow herself to be associated with such a man.

"Goodbye, Will North," Harry whispered, briefly forgetting there was another person in the hall with him.

Ruth looked at him, horrified that she had delivered damaging information on a woman she considered a friend. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm not going to do anything," he assured her. "It will all come out without my help. And then Zoe will do the right thing."

"Oh."

Ruth let out a small breath of air, a look of dejection crossing her face. She leaned back against the wall, her usual nervous energy draining away and ebbing down the floor. Harry frowned; she was taking her role in all this too personally. None of this was her fault, there were times when events unfolded of their own accord. He looked for words to allay her guilt.

"It's better that it comes out now. She was going to throw her career away for that man."

"Married women can have careers," Ruth countered.

"Not in this job. It demands all of you."

Head bent, arms hanging by her sides, she pressed closer to the wall, as if she wanted the concrete to swallow her whole. Sensing that she was not going to respond to his statement, he calculated the benefit of pursuing the subject; use Zoe's situation to influence Ruth. He leaned in closer.

"I hate to see wasted potential. She has such a bright future ahead of her."

As Ruth digested his words, he could see her thoughts moving over her face, the fine lines of her brow drawn together, tiny muscles in her eyelids fluttering. If he played this right, he could hook her, draw her forever into this life. He was close, he could almost hear the wheels of her mind turning. Like so many people who were made up of equal parts intelligence and empathy, she would take the conversation and internalise it. Ruth would turn it around and measure it against what she was contemplating. He let her stand with her thoughts, giving her ample opportunity to form her own conclusions; which would naturally align with his. He studied the collar of her coat, the cutout of the lapel large against her tiny frame. The pale material of her coat stood out like a beacon in the dark hallway. When would she learn that spooks wore black? She stood before him, unaware of his predatory thoughts. Little lamb in her white coat. He gave an involuntary lick to his lips.

"It becomes part of you, this spy thing. And once you've tasted it, you'll always hunger for it."

Even with her eyes still lowered, he could sense her inclination to lean towards him. He could smell her indecision, he only had to push a little more.

"The normality of an ordinary life will call you, but it will never satisfy you. One can't serve two masters. There comes a point when you have to choose."

Separated by a sliver of space, his hands still in his pockets, he could feel the heat emanating from her. Had he said enough? Swayed her with his words? Not wanting to let her go until he was sure, he held her there with the power of his thoughts, willing her to choose this life, to chose the team, to chose him. He wanted to read it in her eyes, to know that she was really one of them. As he waited, he could feel his pulse quicken with the anticipation of success. She raised her eyes to him, and he read her look. There was no defiance, only surrender. She was hooked. She may not reveal anything to him tonight but he had tied her to this life. He inhaled a breath of satisfaction. He could do so much with this woman. In his hands, she could be more than a brilliant analyst, she could be a brilliant spy. He held her eyes, feeding on the power that he had over her, fascinated as her pupils grew larger. It was the dimness of the light or the intensity of the situation, he surmised. Or was it more? Her chest expanded with the irregularity of her breathing, the front of her coat rising with each inhalation. His eyes fell, caught by the movement, skimming over her throat, noticing that it was unadorned. What had happened to the necklace? The delicate scent of her perfume entered his nostrils, unwrapping a memory, stirring ideas that he had pushed away. Imagings that he had promised himself he would not entertain while on the Grid. Her lips parted, and he was unable to close down his mind fast enough. Thoughts spilt over, of whiskey and the red blouse, the curve of her hip, the valley between her breasts, her hand on his cheek. The breath in his chest mirrored her shallow ones.

What could he do with this woman?

And just as quickly, his thoughts collided with reasoning, reforming and coalescing into a more practical vein. The remnants of his field training came to the fore, assessing the situation, noting the danger, analysing the risk. He couldn't do anything with her. Ever. Full stop.

"We must always be careful with our personal lives. Can't let that sort of thing get in the way of work."

A warning to himself as much as her, and he hoped that she had not seen through his veneer to the man that lay beneath. She nodded and looked away. He hovered for a moment and then stepped back.

"Don't let me detain you from your evening."

Laying her hands flat against the wall, she made ready to push herself away. But he wasn't done with her yet.

"Oh, yes, just one more thing." He stopped her, holding up one finger. "During Firestorm, you said something about a rule; I'm trying to remember what it was."

She stared at him, mouth slightly agape. She spoke to him in a small whisper.

"Never take your work home."

"Ah, that's right. Wasn't there a second rule?"

She licked her lips, assessing how much he knew, wondering where exactly his question was leading.

"Report someone who does."

He rocked on his heels, letting the reminder of her rules sink in, watching as waves of worry passed over her eyes.

"I've found it better not to live by rules," he continued. "I have commandments. Do you know what my eleventh commandment is?

She shook her head and swallowed. She was putting on a brave front, she did not capitulate, he would give her that. He inclined his head towards her and whispered.

"Don't get caught."

He stepped back taking with him the magnetism that was holding her in place along the wall. She slouched, leaning back against the concrete for support.

"Have a good night, Ruth."

Leaving her to stand in the hallway, he turned and walked away, a smile playing on his lips. Oh yes, she was his. He would trust that whatever she was up to, she would do the right thing.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 - A Boundless Drop to a Boundless Ocean

The sun shone brightly on the Albert embankment, oblivious to the cares of the world, but even in all its glory, it could not penetrate the cloud of irritation that hung over Harry as he walked along. Bloody politicians, acting on feelings instead of facts. He should have been more judicious in his sharing of information with the Intelligence Coordinator. His fingers flexed as he imagined them wrapped around Guy Facer's neck. The only reason he had disclosed the specifics of the attack on Pharmavor's systems was to instil a measure of calm in the public, that it was probably some crackpot in Coventry and not an external threat of terrorism. It didn't matter, Facer still saw it as an opportunity to alarm the populace and thus garner more support for government intrusion into the private lives of civilians, all in the name of national security.

In front of him strolled a young couple, holding hands, heads bent together in conversation, unaware of any possible threat to their idyll. Their happiness was almost as irritating as Facer's ignorance. Harry picked up his pace, closing in on the heels of the lovebirds, thinking that the sheer amount of frustration emanating from him would be enough to drive them from his path. They seemed to sense his animosity and quickly parted, leaving Harry to feel a brief moment of power as he walked between them. Taking no more than two steps, he slowed down, his eye catching a familiar figure sitting on a bench. His bench. As he stopped to contemplate the picture in front of him, the couple stumbled behind him, passing by on his right and turning around to give him an angry stare. He paid no attention to their aspersions but stood for a moment observing his analyst. For that is what he had come to see her as - his analyst, and only his.

Finding it odd that she would be out in the sun, so rarely did she leave her station before dark, he approached her with mild trepidation, uncertain as to what could have brought her to sit on that particular bench.

"Does your boss know that you're here?" He kept his tone light, not knowing the circumstances.

"I needed to clear my head for a moment." Her gaze remained fixed on her hands.

"Not too long of a moment, I hope."

"I'm sure no one will miss me if I'm gone for five minutes."

"Depends on which five minutes."

As he stood in front of the bench, he rocked on his heels, pulled in part by the need to return to the Grid, held in place by instinct telling him that he should stay. If he engaged her in conversation maybe he could coax her to walk back with him. The nation's pharmaceutical industry was under siege. Lives had been lost. He hardly needed to impress upon her the seriousness of the situation.

"We are in the midst of a possible act of domestic terrorism."

"I'm looking into the wording of those phrases."

"Don't you need to be on the Grid to do that?"

"Sometimes the answer is right in front of us, but we're too caught up in other things to see it."

There was an edge to her voice, and she still had not made direct eye contact with him. Ever since the disciplinary hearing over the whole Fortescue charade, she had been less than conciliatory. It wasn't an outright mutiny, only subtle insurgencies. She avoided sitting next to him at the briefings, went to Adam first with information, refrained from any extraneous conversation. The reprimand had been necessary; she had gone too far, too many people were involved, she had not listened to him. She had bridled at his heavy hand, using the opportunity to remind him of his lack of emotional acuity. In the end, she had accused him of having a heart of stone, and the phrase still sat heavy within him. Contrary to popular belief, he was not an obtuse man, and he sensed by her subdued demeanour that she was there for more than just fresh air. Pastoral care may not be his forte, but he needed his analyst functioning and at the top of her game. If he had to bend an ear to get her back on the Grid he would make the effort. He sat down on the bench making sure to leave an appropriate amount of space. Unsure of the waters, he decided to gently push off from the dock.

"You realise that this is my spot."

"Oh," she studied her intertwined fingers. "I didn't know that this bench had been officially sanctioned."

"I consider it my other office."

"Yes, you brought me here to talk about Tom."

He squinted at her. Was this about Tom? Lingering feelings for the former Section Chief? She raised her head and looked out over the river, the sun catching the lighter strands of her hair. In the rarefied atmosphere of the Grid, he only saw one facet of her, but in the light of the natural world, he always discovered deeper layers. The problem was, he didn't want to know the other aspects of his analyst. In his mind, he had cordoned off their encounter in the hallway, downplaying the spark that had passed between them, chalking it up to the lateness of the hour. The mastery of his thoughts had been successful for the most part, but there had been a few nights where she crossed over the sea of his consciousness and into the land of his dreams.

"There's something soothing about the water," she said, interrupting his study of her. "It continues on without us, regardless of human intervention."

"I think we've done quite a lot to this poor river."

"But it always finds a way to keep flowing."

He didn't respond, switching to the tactic of companionable silence wondering if that was the key. The sounds of the city clamoured around them as he waited; the hum of traffic, intermittent sirens, snatches of conversation from passers by. Eventually, his patience was rewarded and she spoke.

"You said that it would just be a slap on the wrist."

He looked at her, confused, thinking that she was talking about her disciplinary hearing until she clarified her meaning.

"Zoe."

She spoke the name so softly, he thought it was the breeze. So then, it was Zoe and not Tom that had caused this interlude of circumspection.

"That's what I was told." He looked out over the river, not wanting to revisit the loss of a prize officer.

"You didn't stop it."

"I tried, Ruth, believe me, I tried." As he spoke, suppressed anger leaked into his words.

"If we can't count on our own government to back us-"

Without thinking, he placed a hand on her arm, halting the discussion while he cast a suspicious eye over their surroundings.

"This is not the place," he warned her quietly.

"Then where, Harry?" she countered back in an angry whisper. "Danny says not the Grid, you say not here - then where?"

He let out a heavy sigh. In truth, he had no idea what say to her. Having lost a number of colleagues over the years, he had learned to deal with it by means of a large glass of single malt - but that would not do for her.

"You said it was all looked after." She moved her arm out from underneath his hand, pulling away from him. "That you had taken care of it."

He sank back against the wood of the bench. It felt like an eternity since they had sat on that bench, and he had secretly smiled as Tom's feet of clay were exposed. Now his own limited powers were laid bare. He could not fix everything, and of all people, he did not want her to see it, indeed, he did not want to acknowledge it himself.

"Unfortunately," he grimaced slightly, knowing his words would sound like a platitude, "In order to save people we have to let them go."

Turning away, she looked toward the sky. "It's a comfort to know that when I leave you will take it all in stride."

His head swerved around to her. "Are you leaving?

"No, I didn't mean it like that. I meant if circumstances ever transpired where I had to leave the country to avoid jail-"

A chuckle escaped his lips at the far flung prospect. "The odds of that happening are next to none. You're a desk spook. Stay on the Grid and you'll be fine."

"I'm not an indentured servant, Harry," she said wryly. "I'll have to leave sometime."

"Not if I can help it." Realising that his words sounded slightly proprietary, he directed the conversation back to its original subject. "People come and go in this business, Ruth, you have to accept that."

"Then why are we doing this?"

"You once said you had a duty to serve your country."

"But what about colleagues? Aren't we here for them too?"

She looked at him accusingly, daring him to come up with an answer that would appease her. He took a deep breath.

"Everyone leads this life for their own reason. You have to find yours. And once you've found it, hold onto it with both hands as if your life depended on it." His fingers curled into a tight fist to illustrate his point. "It could very well be the only thing that stops you from going over the edge. Governments change, colleagues move on, lovers will leave." He tapped two fingers forcefully against his chest. "It has to be something inside of you that no one else can touch. Do that and you won't be swayed by the vagaries of the day."

A warm breeze blew across the bench, and he took a moment to inhale the fresh tang in the air, collecting himself after his little sermon. Hazarding a glance at the woman beside him, he relaxed slightly as he saw the openness in her face, an agreement in her eyes, and dare he hoped a hint of admiration. Perhaps he had regained some ground in her esteem. It was important that this woman not lose faith in him, that the man behind the mask was never revealed. The were times when the facade was the only thing that kept him together. Stop the gap and carry on.

"We need to head back."

He stood and almost put out his hand to help her up as if coaxing a recalcitrant child. He thought the better of it and shoved it into his pocket instead. She remained sitting, reluctant to leave.

"I never got to say goodbye to her. Or to Tom."

He looked down into her plaintive face. Eyes large and blue, still imploring him to somehow make it better. He couldn't. She would have to construct her own shell or this business would destroy her.

"Sometimes there isn't time for goodbye."

She rose from the bench and stood next to him. "I would make time."

He did not respond to her assertion. It was a lesson she would need to learn on her own. Harry pulled out his phone and glanced at the display.

"We have to get going. We have a job to do."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed the two lovers leaning against the rail. They were half turned to him, the man with a knowing look, the woman fighting a smile. Obviously, they thought Harry's earlier haste was caused by his desire to meet a paramour. As he slipped his mobile back into his pocket, he let out a sigh; how very wrong they were.

.

A pool of light illuminated the facade of Thames House, and Harry stood within its circle, taking a moment to enjoy the unseasonable warmth of the night. He was in a good mood. The operation had been a success, and as an added bonus, they had kept the G&J key out of the government's clutches. Admittedly, everything had not concluded under the best of circumstances, it was always unnerving when the enemy came from within, but still, Forrestal had been stopped. He wanted to celebrate that success, and not dwell on his earlier failures. He had decided to forgo the usual glass of single malt in his office, wanting instead to be around people. Adam had left for the evening and Harry was hard pressed to think of anyone else to commiserate with. The idea of going to the club felt interminable, he couldn't stomach the layered talk, the chance of running Oliver Mace or worse Guy Facer. So instead, he headed in the direction of the George. The place would allow him a degree of anonymity, where he could keep his own company and still be amongst a crowd.

The pub was busy, and he chose a seat at the bar, signalling his order to the bartender. While waiting for his drink, Harry casually scanned the room as was his habit, but stopped abruptly when his eyes landed on a table near the back. Side by side, deep conversation sat Danny and Ruth. A band of steel constricted around his chest. Immediately, he looked away not wanting to be seen by them. For a second, he debated walking over to the table and joining them but it was a fleeting thought. He was their boss, there needed to be a degree of separation between the links in the chain of command. After his drink was placed in front of him, he took a long draught and reluctantly admitted to himself that this was not his place. He belonged at the club, that was his milieu. He would leave after the one drink and his officers would be none the wiser. It was for the best. Scarlett needed a walk and there was an Alfred Brendel disc that still lay unopened.

"Harry?" The voice was near his shoulder.

Half turning in his seat, he was surprised to see Ruth. Danny stood a pace behind her. During Harry's ruminations, they had finished their drinks, settled up and had made ready to leave. It pleased him that they were not staying out too late.

"What are you doing here?" Ruth asked.

Harry held up his glass in response. There was a glow to her face, a slight sparkle to her eyes, and Harry let himself believe it was from seeing him, although it was more likely from the effects of alcohol.

"You should have come and joined us," she added.

"I didn't want to intrude."

Danny gave a Harry a cursory nod and then took a step toward Ruth, placing a possessive hand on her arm.

"I'm going to get a cab." He turned and headed towards the door.

Ruth turned back to Harry caught between the obligation to stay with her boss and the desire to leave with Danny.

"Go on if you're catching a ride with him." Harry nodded his permission.

"No, I just wanted to say goodnight to him."

"I'll walk you out then." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few notes, dropping them on the bar as he left.

What had possessed him to accompany her, he did not know, only that he felt compelled to be near her.

Danny was still on the street when they exited the bar, and Ruth left Harry's side to head over to the younger man. Harry held back, not exactly sure of the situation. Had he interrupted a date? It wasn't a scenario he wanted to contemplate, but it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. Danny and Ruth were both hurting, vulnerable, open to overtures from the opposite sex, relationships sprung up between members of a team all the time. The pair stood for a moment, exchanging smiles, heads coming closer together as the talked.

And then they hugged.

Harry quickly looked down at the pavement, his breath shallow, the wind knocked out of him. Even though he had only moments ago rationalised that very scenario, seeing it in person left him feeling like he had been punched in the gut. It was a disproportionate reaction, it didn't make any sense. He concluded that he had drunk the scotch to quickly, he was functioning on an empty stomach. He looked up to see Danny getting into a cab and Ruth walking back in his air once again filled his lungs. She was returning to him.

"I just wanted to see him off. He's been through a lot."

"That's very good of you."

Over the years, Harry had lost many pieces of himself, and as he stood on the crowded pavement, he realised that Ruth held one of them. The ability to console.

Conversation not immediately forthcoming, they stood in awkward silence, he assessing her, she not daring to look at him. Pedestrians streamed around them, revelling in the hint of warmth that accompanied the promise of spring.

"I should head home." She moved her head to indicate the other side of the street. "My bus is over there."

"Let me get you a cab."

"Oh no, I can't afford a taxi." She gave him a crooked grin. "Not on what you pay me."

"I'll pay for it."

"I can't let you do that." The was a note of disapproval in her voice as if the offer were inappropriate.

"It's not a proposition if that's what you're worried about."

It was a vain attempt at humour, and from the look of alarm on her face, it had missed the mark.

"I didn't even consider it that way," she said.

Brillant. He had gone from bad to worse, giving the impression he was some sort of lecherous old sod. Was there a crack in the pavement large enough to engulf him?

"What I meant to say was that the Service would pay for it."

"Oh," she intoned with relief. "It's still too much of a hassle. I'd have to get a chit and a remittance voucher. Easier if I take the bus."

"I want to make sure you get home safely."

He looked at her sincerely, hoping this time his words came off with the appropriate amount of professionalism and the least amount of lechery.

"Thank you for your consideration."

Neither one of them moved. The swell of the traffic pressed closer around them, and they inched together, the air between them compressing, forming its own energy. The skin beneath his shirt grew hot, and a crimson flush stole across her cheek. Possessed of a need to detain this woman for as long as he could, Harry searched his mind for a reason, curiosity getting the better of him.

"What were you and Danny talking about?"

"Oh, you know, the person we're not supposed to be talking about."

"Ah. So you found a place."

"You could say that."

A young man accidentally bumped into Ruth's shoulder, and she inadvertently stumbled towards Harry. He caught her elbow in an effort to steady her, and she looked up at him with a smile of embarrassment. He kept his hand on her arm not wanting to let her go.

"And you. Are you alright?"

The huskiness of his voice surprised him, and a look of confusion crossed her face. He was assuming that she would respond with typical British forbearance, but his tiny slip of emotion had released a barrier within her.

"I saw him die, Harry."

"Who?"

"Andrew."

Completely unprepared for her answer, he let his hand drop away from her arm. It was only natural that she would have been traumatised by the experience, but in the aftermath of the operation, he had given little thought to her emotional welfare, satisfied with the fact that she had not been physically harmed.

"I couldn't do anything to help him." Her mouth moved in a delicate twist as she tried to compose herself.

"It wasn't your fault."

"It's a horrible way to die."

She looked down, the glitter of a tear caught on her eyelash. Harry's chest constricted in an altogether different manner. An overwhelming urge to protect her washed over him, countered by his natural inclination to turn away from any display of emotion. He shielded himself with reason.

"He was responsible for a number of deaths."

"You once said it wasn't up to us to dispense justice."

Mind like a steel trap.

"We had no other choice. He had lost his way, we couldn't bring him back."

Another surge of people passed, their voices raised in laughter. A siren blared as a car raced by, horns honking in its wake. Could the world not be quiet for one minute? He took her arm once more and guided her away from the commotion. Cloistered in the entryway of a storefront, they found refuge from the noise of the street. The intimacy of the space stripped away her reserve.

"I was such an idiot," she continued. "He asked me for over for pasta. He quoted Abu Nuwas, and I stupidly thought he…."

His grip tightened around her forearm, jealousy swirling inside him, mixing with the delayed realisation of the jeopardy she had endured.

"All the time I was tied up I thought…" She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to stop an errant tear.

"What?" He leaned down in order to hear, pulling her in a fraction.

Close to him, almost touching, she whispered. "If I died, who would miss me?"

His throat constricted with the effort to swallow. The same thought had crossed his mind many times. His hand moved to her upper arm, feeling the smallness of her frame even beneath the bulk of her coat.

"We didn't know…" He searched for words of comfort. "There was a text.."

"I thought that you might …"

"Might what?"

She looked out onto the street. "But then Danny came."

He tried to decipher her incomplete thoughts. Had she thought that he would come for her? He was Head of the Section for God's sake. That wasn't his role. He wasn't some sort of knight riding in on a charger. He blinked, and the thought turned on its head. She had expected that he would save her.

"Danny and I made a promise," she continued, "That we would never let each other get old and lonely."

His heart sank, falling into his stomach. If he had saved her, would she have made that promise with him? Did she think it was too late for him; that he was already old and lonely. His chest heaved with the thought. He didn't want to be old and lonely. A memory surfaced of Catherine hugging him goodbye a few months earlier. The embrace of his daughter had left him with such a feeling of peace and contentment. Now, as he stood alongside this slip of a woman, a craving stirred within him; a yearning to comfort and to be comforted, to not have to weather the furies of the Service alone. It was on the tip of his tongue to invite her back into the pub, join him in a drink, talk things through, but she spoke before he could.

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I think I might be a little tipsy." She rubbed the heel of her hand over her check in a subtle move to wipe away a tear. She tilted her chin up as she cleared her throat, showing him once more the mixture of vulnerability and defiance that he had observed during her interview. "I'm alright, really. I'm sorry I bothered you."

"It's no bother," he countered quickly, wanting her to confide in him, however inadequate a counsellor he may be.

"Oh look, there's my bus."

She turned away, stepping back out onto the pavement. His fingers reached out, slipping away from the fabric of her coat. He tried stopping her with his voice.

"No, let me-"

"I've got to run." She backed into the crowd, her voice raised over the noise. "I'll see you in the morning."

And then she was gone, swallowed up by the sea, her head appearing briefly as she ran across the street. Harry remained in the alcove, slightly dazed by the encounter, wondering if it had all been a dream. The sounds of the street slowly invaded his consciousness. No, he was in reality. If it had been a dream, he would have set aside his stubborn reservations and shown her that he did not have a heart of stone.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 12 - Butterfly's a Decoy

The soft whistle of a nameless tune fell from Harry's lips as he walked along the corridor. It had been circling through his head for a number of days, though he couldn't quite place the melody. Why he was possessed of the urge to whistle, he could not say. Perhaps it was the relief of dispensing with the whole Deputy General nonsense. He had never wanted the position in the first place and suspected that the powers that be had made him jump through the hoops of an interview purely for their own amusement. Admittedly, it had made perfect sense that they would tap him; he was the most qualified. It made the fact that they had appointed a politician in his stead all the more galling. Still, he did feel remarkably lighter for having dodged the prospect of being chained to an even bigger desk. He was on the ground where he belonged. In the thick of things. Like today. A raid on Dollis Hills had yielded a surprising amount of intelligence; a map and information regarding sarin gas. The find was a stroke of luck, possible clues alerting them to an upcoming attack. It was the sort of day that only he and his team knew about; these findings would never be made public, the victory would go unheralded. It was only when things went catastrophically wrong that people turned their eyes to the security services. Fingers ready to point blame, accusations of dropping the ball. He would rather keep his head below the parapet; his days of seeking glory were over. There was a certain gratification to working in the shadows. Success was measured by the ability to stay beneath the radar, the challenge of dismantling a threat without ever coming to light, and no one the wiser.

Turning the corner, he found himself in direct trajectory with his analyst. Head bowed, attention deep in deciphering a file, Ruth walked along, seemingly unaware of his presence. He stopped, a bemused expression on his face, making no attempt to move out of her way. She continued walking, halting only when the top of the folder touched his chest. She gave a small gasp of surprise and looked up to see who was impeding her progress. There was no apology, only a quizzical look on her face as if running into colleagues while reading was an occupational hazard she dealt with daily. He raised an eyebrow half in acknowledgement of their near miss, half in query as to the contents of the file.

"Just running through the latest chatter from North Africa," she informed him.

The lines on his face returned and he chastised himself for thinking that they would make it through the day unscathed. He should know better. For every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction. Who was he to bend the laws of physics? Her expression revealed that had she read his thoughts

"Oh, I don't think it's anything imminent," she assured him.

He took the folder from her and glanced through the files.

"Make sure Adam gets this. He's got someone coming in from Six to get outside verification."

He kept his eyes lowered to the paperwork, scanning words and broken phrases that meant nothing to him, but that's why he had her. Like a moth, she hovered near him, information her flame, drawn to it, her hands fluttering, waiting for its return. He gave no thought to how her mannerisms had once annoyed him; he now found her enthusiasm a tonic. It was a necessary part of his day, it sustained him. He fed on their little interactions, coming to expect that she would halt him as he passed her desk, or call out to him from across the Grid, or crash into his office unannounced. He understood that her energy was an offshoot of her intellect; a racing mind, impatiently waiting for others to catch up with her. He could almost hear the crackle of her thoughts. His fingers flexed on the files, overcome with the desire to harness that energy, pin back her wings and keep her to himself. He inhaled deeply and released the impulse, searching his mind for a more subtle way to bind her to him.

"Fiona Carter is fitting in nicely."

"Yes," Ruth nodded. "She and Danny seem to have built a rapport."

"I was a bit worried about her and Adam. It's always a gamble having a couple on a team."

"He was telling me that they met in Damascus at an embassy reception." She tilted her head to one side, a soft smile playing on her lips. "Apparently, it was dreadfully boring, and they ended up going for a long walk through the city. Every weekend after that, they would always meet up at the minaret of the Bride."

The sentence was rounded off with an almost imperceptible sigh. How strange that she would tell him this tale. And utterly compelling. From the distant look in her eye, he knew that she was lost in the romance of Adam and Fiona Carter as they came together in the sultry heat of a desert city. She was far away from the coolness of Thames House, it's fluorescent lights and intelligence chatter. And him. He wanted her back.

"Thank you again for your help with the DG interview."

Like cold water, his words broke the spell of a thousand and one nights. She straightened up, returning to the present with him.

"I'm still sorry you didn't get it."

He looked at her from under his lids. "But not too sorry."

The corners of her mouth tweaked, subduing an impish grin. There had been a time when any hint of irreverence would have annoyed him, but he now he saw it as a little oasis. It was part of her resilience. With the file still in his hand, he contemplated the creature in front of him. She seemed to have bounced back from the Forrestal incident. He had been worried after their discussion on the street, but she had returned to work the next day as if nothing had happened; diligently continuing on with her craft of breaching seemingly impenetrable institutions. Of course, he was sensible enough to know that the surface did not always reflect what lay beneath, but he wasn't about to dredge the sea of her psyche and bring traumas to the surface. A happy Ruth was a productive Ruth.

Thinking that the pause in the conversation meant that they were done, she reached for the file. He wasn't entirely finished with her yet.

"How was your evening out?"

Her hand stilled in the air, a look of confusion on her face. "My evening?"

"The other night, after we finished with Morgan, you were heading out. Only three days late, you said."

"Oh, yes." Lowering her eyes, her mouth remained open as she searched for an answer, a hint of pink colouring her cheek.

The energy around her changed, turning inward, her manner becoming subdued, and he liked to think that he had done it with his words. The muscle of his cheek twitched with the illicit thrill he always felt when boxing her in. He was playing with the boundaries of professionalism, and he knew it, but it was one of his few enjoyments - making her squirm. He expected her to follow her usual course and excuse herself with a demure smile, leaving him with nothing more than the swish of her skirt. But that did not happen. Instead, she turned back to him.

"I seem to recall that you once said whatever I did in my spare time was my business, as long as it didn't interfere with our business."

He blinked at her words, the foundation of his superiority shifting. He had said those words to her after the Source Karl fiasco. Had she tracked down that Fortescue bloke? Had she been on a date with him? No, she wouldn't do that. He had put her through the whole charade of a disciplinary hearing to teach her a lesson. His mind raced with images of her and some other young man, one that he did not know about. On second thought, he wasn't sure if his heart of stone was up to finding out if she enjoyed her evening.

"Quite right, it's none of my business. I didn't mean to pry."

Shifting his weight, he made ready to end the conversation and leave, but her words stopped him.

"Because if I were to tell you what I did in my private time, it would open up a whole other level of conversation."

Settling back on his heels, he decided to stay and looked at her with curiosity.

"Would it?"

"I might ask you how your evening went."

There was a teasing quality to her voice, and he realised that she was not ceding the match to him as she usually did, but was serving him back. It took him a moment to process the change. It was a holdover from the hours they had spent together preparing for the DG interview, the sense of familiarity she now displayed with him. It was to be expected, role reversals often blurred the lines of command. He would need to redefine the boundaries of their relationship and reassert himself. He mustered a sufficiently imperial tone.

"My evening?"

"Yes. I arranged a car for you, remember? You went to Le Papillon, I believe."

Thinking back, he recalled that he had dined that night with Karen. He had tracked down her details and "coincidentally" run into her at the symphony a few times. Overcome with suspicion, he wondered how Ruth had discovered his plans and what exactly she knew - information gathering sorceress that she was.

"How did you know where I was going?"

"Your security officer."

"I'll have to have a word with him."

In the back of his mind, a voice cautioned him, warning that it would be appropriate to end the conversation at that point and extract himself before revealing anything personal. But a stronger voice, one lodge deep in his chest somewhere beneath a lower rib urged him to stay. Heeding that voice, he leaned a shoulder against the wall, a hint of challenge in one raised brow, wondering what she might say next. Her eyes darted away and back again as if she were assembling her courage.

"It's quite lovely, that restaurant," she said.

"Oh, have you been?"

"No, but I've read things."

"You'll have to go sometime."

Moving closer to the wall, she mirrored his stance, her shoulder leaning against the concrete. She looked to a point over his shoulder.

"I wouldn't want to go alone."

"Well, no…"

"It would be nice to be asked."

"I would think in this day and age a woman could ask a man."

The territory they were entering was increasingly familiar. It was almost, dare he say, flirting. He had entered into it with Monica and Karen. And a string of other women. But not his analyst. Never his analyst.

With her face still half turned, her eyes slid back to him.

"Yes, she could."

He stopped breathing. Was she going to ask him? No. That was utterly ridiculous, absolutely beyond anything he had ever imagined. He almost laughed out loud. She would never see him in that light.

Her head dipped away and a strand of hair broke free from its clasp. She had taken to wearing her hair pulled back, and he missed the way it had hung about her shoulders and framed her face. With her hair swept up, she looked older; that was until she turned her head leaving her ponytail to bounce in a saucily distracting fashion. Always the contradiction. Fascinated by the strand of hair, his hand stirred at his side with the impulse to reach up and tuck it behind her ear. His eyes moved, catching hers, and he realised she had been studying him.

A woman could ask a man to dinner.

The words circled in his head until his attention was caught by the movement of her hand. It rose to the chain around her neck, her slender fingers tracing over the charm that hung in the centre. His glance dropped down to the hint of cleavage above her neckline. Under his gaze, she shifted her weight, and he noticed that the bottom of her shirt did not quite reach her waistband, exposing a tantalising brief sliver of skin around her midriff. She cleared her throat, and he quickly brought his eyes back up as she spoke."

"But I think I would like it if someone were to ask me. I'm a bit old fashioned that way."

"Yes," he cleared his throat, his mouth dry for some reason. "I think I would rather do the asking."

His eyes returned to her fingers, mesmerised as they slid along her collarbone and back to the necklace. She inhaled deeply, the muscles at her throat tightening and he thought she was going to say something else, but she remained quiet. Grateful for the support of the wall, he leaned further into it, realising that his mind had gone completely blank. He had no idea why he was standing in the hall with this woman, engaged in seemingly inconsequential conversation when somewhere in the world an imminent crisis loomed. He only knew that at that moment he didn't want to be anywhere else and that the rareness of the interlude made it even more precious.

There was slight squint to her eyes, and her face held a look of knowing, similar to when she had coached him for the interview. She leaned slightly toward him, silently coaxing as if her thoughts could galvanise him to a conclusion. His mind stalled in neutral. The water was murky and he could not fathom what she was thinking. She licked her lips, her shoulders falling, a look of disappointment flitting across her face.

"I should ...:" she gestured down the hall, indicating the need to carry on with her work.

"We should…" he echoed faintly.

They remained standing.

Words still elusive, he let himself linger in the moment, making no attempt to recall cognizant thought, trying to ignore the pinprick of reason that told him this might be all that he could share with her. The apex of their relationship; a conversation in the corridor about a subject other than work.

She pushed off from the wall first, her motion releasing him from his stupor. As if waking up, he inhaled deeply and cricked his neck. She stepped away, tucking the errant strand of hair behind her ear. He realised needed to say something.

"Wait a minute," he called to her.

"Yes?" She turned back to him, expectantly.

"You forgot the folder."

"Oh."

She took the few steps back to him and reached out for the file. He did not immediately relinquish the folder, his mind reaching through the mist of their recent conversation, a thought striking him. She was flirting with him. He was certain. He remembered another incident where he had thought the same and decided to test his theory.

"Hypothetically speaking, if I had landed the DG job, would you have forgotten about me?"

The range of emotion that moved across her face was worth the price of the question. Surprise, embarrassment, pleasure; the red tint returning to her cheeks.

Game, set, match.

Squaring his shoulders, he rose to his full height, the edges of his ego expanding. She was flirting with him. He had reclaimed the upper hand. Looking down at her, he temporarily let down his guard, wrapping her with the warmth of his eyes. She stood transfixed, gazing back at him. He had caught her. That was all he needed for an answer. It was an interesting development. Nothing could ever come of it, of course, but he filed it away for future use.

As if realising that she may have lost some ground, she gave him a pert look.

"I wouldn't forget you entirely," she conceded. "I might remember your pacing."

She turned and walked away.

"Ruth," he called after her once more. "The folder."

"Ah, yes," she pivoted back to him and took it without meeting his eyes.

Balance was restored.

He smiled as he watched her walk down the hall, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. Instead of her usual skirt, she wore a pair of dark trousers. Perhaps his powers of observation were not as keen as he thought.

.

They did not get away unscathed.

The universe in its divine wisdom does not recognise good and evil, only the need for balance. In a move, senseless to Harry, it restored balance by demanding the life of Danny Hunter.

The churning blades of the helicopter picked up speed, the deafening noise finally receding as the craft lifted into the air. Lights silently flashed, voices rising and falling as the scene was secured. Fiona Carter stumbled from the doorway, and Harry watched as she fell into the arms of her husband. His hardened heart, already cracked from the sight of his dead officer, lost another piece. If he was not careful it would crumble entirely. A voice spoke beside him summarizing the details of what had transpired in the house, but it came to him as if through water. He squinted his eyes as he tried to focus. The sun's rays were far too bright to witness such horror. Where was its respect for the death of a man? A clipboard was thrust in front of him, and Harry absently scrawled his signature across the bottom, not quite sure what he was signing. Having briefly glanced at the paper, his eyes were drawn back to the bottom of the drive. Ruth stood vigil over the lifeless body of his officer, caressing the face as if she were soothing a child. Her lips moved and Harry wasn't sure if she was praying or speaking to Danny. Even in death, she comforted the man. An ambulance attendant moved to zip the bag over Danny's face, but Ruth kept her hand on the gurney, silently refusing to let go. Words passed between her and the attendant. Whatever she had asked the response was a shake of the man's head. The gurney was wheeled towards the waiting ambulance, the legs retracted and loaded up into the cab. She remained, unmoving.

As he stood there in the chaotic aftermath of the hostage crisis, played out in an abandoned house underneath an uncaring sun, the fractured mess of the universe slowly coalesced. Shards of disparate thought, exposed by shining sun, fused together, converging in the woman that stood before him. All of her facets were revealed; her compassion, her strength, the sharpness of her mind, the underpinning vulnerability, the hidden highlights of her hair. Every piece of her that he had carefully separated, details that he had labelled and boxed away, came into view with such stunning speed that it left him breathless. As much as he had tried to ignore it, she now stood before him completely whole. A wave of tenderness, so achingly bittersweet washed over him. A lump rose in his throat; not only for the death of a colleague but also at the recognition that she was all that he had left.

He did not want to stand alone.

The gravel crunched beneath his feet as he walked over to her. When he reached her shoulder, she did not turn to acknowledge him but kept her gaze on the activity of the ambulance. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her and caress her face just as she had done with Danny, but he didn't know how. He had long ago misplaced the tools for such a purpose. Words failed him, shrivelling before they reached his tongue. She had them all. If only she would turn to him, smooth her fingers over his knotted brow, and whisper her soothing words into his ear. Could he lay his burden at her feet? He longed to rest his head on the softness of her breast, find solace in her arms, release himself in her if only for a moment. He thought that she might speak, dreaded that she might completely break down, but she remained silent beside him. As the activity continued to swirl around them, they stood frozen, ribbons of unspoken grief binding them. The fabric of shared sorrow became a cocoon, one that only the would inhabit, sheltering them from the outside world. His arms hung limply by his side, muscles unable to move. He felt something brush against his knuckles. Not wanting to break the bubble of reverence that surrounded them, he subtly glanced down and saw that it was her hand.

Take it.

He couldn't, his hands only knew the roughness of this world, his fingers were unsuited for such a delicate task. He rubbed his knuckles against hers, his only concession the emotion that welled within him.

The ambulance pulled away. She inhaled shakily and used her other hand to rub her knuckles across her cheek. He turned to her, speaking automatically.

"I'll find a car to take you home."

She nodded.

He should go with her. One should never be alone at times such as these. He couldn't, he had a job to do. Why was he this man? He had to be. There was no one else. Someone had to stay strong.

Leaders don't have feelings.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N- Hello there, sorry for the delay in posting. Thank you so much for continuing to read and review._

 _._

Chapter 12 - Love, Love, Careless Love

The interior of the car smelled of freshly manufactured vinyl and bureaucracy; it was the smell that every new pool car held before it was tainted with the odours of stale coffee and cheap takeaway. And waiting. Harry tapped his fingers on the barely worn upholstery. He had been sitting in front of her house for a number of minutes waiting for her to come out. He checked his watch. They were going to be late. He considered asking his driver to honk the horn but that would verge on sacrilege. There was an element to the whole scenario that felt vaguely like a date - if not for the fact that they were going to a funeral. It was in part due to this unaccustomed sensation that Harry was hesitant to go to her door. Since Danny's death, everything was off kilter. His internal compass had shifted, his magnetic poles out of line and he wasn't sure which way was due north. Thoughts about his analyst veered in every direction, accompanied by a voice wondering what would happen if he acted on those thoughts. Feelings for a colleague were nothing new, he had been through it all before with other women- like, lust, love, but none of those words defined the brewing concoction of emotions stirring within him. It had all been far simpler when she was just an analyst, a bundle of intelligence or merely a pretty face. Not wanting to encourage these feelings, he had debated whether or not to offer her a ride to the funeral, but in the end, he had thought it the most courteous thing to do, silently admitting that he needed her presence.

Harry studied the back of the driver's head. The young man tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, completely oblivious to Harry's dilemma. He could send the driver to the door. No, that would seem unfeeling. He would have to go up there and fetch her himself. Hefting himself out of the car, he slammed the door behind him with a resounding bang, hoping the noise would be loud enough to bring her the door before he arrived.

The garden was tattered and in need of repair and he surmised that unlike him, she had no one to tend it. Reaching her doorstep, he rang the bell, the echo of an electronic buzzer sounding on the other side. Silence. He tapped the bell three times in quick succession, the sharp buzzes telegraphing his impatience. The muffled sound of footsteps drew near and a metal lock clicked. She opened the door and stood before him; dressed in dark colours, ashen-faced, hair untied, unable to meet him in the eye.

"Sorry I…" She stepped back and let him in. "I'm running a bit late."

She turned and retreated down the small hall, leaving him to stand in the doorway. He hesitated, unable to shake the feeling that if he entered her house he would be crossing a line. The Grid was his domain, he was in control there, the parameters of their relationship were clearly defined. Here, he was out of his element, she had the advantage. A strange flutter of nerves moved in his stomach and he chastised himself for it. If he could stare down the barrel of a gun of a KGB agent, surely he could deal with this slip of a woman. Step in the house, wait for her, get to the funeral. That's all he had to do. Closing the door behind him, he entered the hall and was instantly enveloped by the scent of her home. Warm with spicy undertones, overlaid by notes of her fragrance and other exotic scents completely foreign to him. There was a faint musty smell, the kind that rose from the pages of old books. So much more inviting than the car, the outside world, his house. All of it enticing him in. He glanced up and saw his reflection in a mirror above a hall cabinet. He couldn't deny who he was, he was a spook, ruled by the need to uncover secrets. And he wanted to know hers.

Taking one step in, he came across surfaces littered with books and papers, note cards slipped in between the wainscoting. Two more steps allowed him to peak around a corner and into the living room. Cushions of mismatched fabrics, lampshades made of wicker, an ancient television set. A bookcase with more bric brac than books. Everything in the room was Ruth; it had been touched by her, chosen by her. So many more layers revealed as if he was stepping into the woman herself. His heart constricted at the sight of all the personal mementoes so unlike his Spartan home. A movement on the couch caught his eye, and he started. A motley coloured cat was curled up in a ball, idly licking one paw. Raising its head, it gave Harry a disinterested stare. He looked back at it, equally unimpressed. Hearing footsteps, Harry moved back to his original position at the front door. With a soft thud, the cat jumped off the couch and padded after Harry, circling around his legs with a plaintive meow.

Ruth appeared back down the hall, face freshened, hair tied up in its usual manner. He looked at her keenly. Her lips were a brighter shade of red but she had done nothing to erase the dark circles under her eyes. She had been crying. He searched his mind for words of comfort but they escaped him.

"Come on Fidget, Harry doesn't like cats."

"Why do you say that?"

"You told me once, remember? You have a dog."

"Ah." He couldn't help but be pleased that she had remembered a detail about him. Had she filed away pieces of information about him just as he had done about her? "It's not that I don't like them, I don't understand the appeal. Indifferent creatures. Dog's are loyal, welcome you at the door. Cat's only come when they please."

The cat flopped down at Harry's feet emitting a soft purr.

"She doesn't seem to be that indifferent to you."

Harry looked down at the offending creature, silently cursing it for undermining his argument. Ruth reached around by his shoulder and pulled a coat off the hook. It was one he had not seen before, neither white nor black but of herringbone design. His hands moved with the impetus to help her put it on but he held back. Unaware of his thoughts, she slipped her arm into the sleeve without him.

"I sent flowers to Danny's family on behalf of everyone."

"Thank you." He closed his eyes, berating himself for overlooking that detail, grateful for the thoughtfulness of the woman before him.

"I haven't been able to get in touch with Sam though."

"I spoke with her." He paused before he delivered the news. "She's not coming back."

"What do you mean?" Ruth stopped with her coat halfway on and looked up at him.

"We came to an agreement that Five might not be the best environment for her considering past events. I've relocated her to GCHQ."

"Oh." Ruth's shoulders slumped. "I wish she had talked to me."

"She's not in a very good state."

"She took it pretty hard. She was very fond of Danny."

"Yes, I had hoped something would come of that."

Ruth gave him a sad little smile. "Were you playing matchmaker?"

"No," he half smiled back. "It's just easier when relationships are inside the service.

Their eyes met and the air between them grew still, laden with the possibilities that his comment bore if one of them would care to take it, but it remained forbidden; now was not the time four such thoughts. The moment was dispelled as she inhaled a shaky breath. She looked down, her lips moving silently as she tried to hold back her emotion.

"He was so young, Harry."

"I know."

The conversation stalled, the only sound the quiet ticking of the radiator as it hummed beneath the tension of grief and longing. He wanted to hold her if only to feel the warmth of another human being. He needed to say something.

"We have to get going."

He waited outside as she closed the door and made sure the lock was secure. Walking a few paces ahead of her down the path, he opened the iron gate for her to walk through. She turned around and waited for him, a sort of silent communion passing between them that they would never stray more than a few feet from each other. Instinct compelled him to step before her and open the car door. It was utterly unlike him and he couldn't remember the last time he had opened a door for a woman. It was all he had; lacking the words he could only show her through a gesture. She stepped into the car and he closed the door firmly behind her, the sound giving him a satisfied feeling of possession, knowing that he had her tucked securely away in the car. As he slid into his seat, he briefly made eye contact in the rearview mirror with the driver, signalling their readiness, and the car pulled away from the kerb.

The silence between them was reserved befitting the solemnity of the occasion. Harry felt no need for small talk; it was enough to be with her. Turning his head, he gazed out the window, the city carrying on regardless of their grief. He briefly cast an eye at her and saw her fingers worrying at the pieces of a shredded tissue. He wanted to reach out and still them, give her hand a gentle squeeze of assurance, a moment of connection in the all too fragmented world that they inhabited. He looked out the window instead.

"I don't know if I can do this," she whispered.

"Go to the funeral?"

"This life."

"Ruth…"

"I keep hearing the gunshot in my ear."

If there was a moment to take her hand, now would be the time. A host of platitudes came into his head; the need to carry on so that Danny's sacrifice would not be in vain, duty to one's country, perseverance against the odds. He considered telling her about Helen, Archie, Bill, the seemingly endless list of people he had lost over the years. He clenched his jaw, biting back the names knowing that if he were to list them all he would fall into the abyss with them. He could pour it all out to her, she would understand. But he couldn't - pride, professionalism - he wasn't sure what held him back. Instead, he averted his gaze and looked out the window, saying the only words that came to him.

"I need you."

Part command, part revelation, the phrase was utterly devoid of sentiment, a statement of fact. Any eloquence he had held in the chambers of Whitehall deserted him, he was not a man of courtly manner. She knew her worth, her value to him professionally, if not personally. They were tied together. He had spent months trying to rid her from the section but she had tenaciously hung on, and he was not about to give her up now.

Helen, Tessa, Tom, Zoe, Danny and Sam. He had lost so many. He couldn't lose her too.

She looked out the window.

"I think that's what Danny would say."

.

The Grid was beset by a cyclone of activity, and Harry slipped into his office, quickly closing the door behind, searching for a moment of respite. Bones unaccountably weary, he sank into his chair. God, was it only noon - it felt like midnight. Leaning his elbows on the desk, he cradled his head in his heads, contemplating the crisis that was unfolding before them. Shining Dawn; a fringe organisation they knew next to nothing about, had landed smack in the middle of their radar, and as a result, the Grid was overrun with know it all Americans. To top it all off, the fates had decreed that Juliet 'bloody' Shaw should reenter his life. If the gods were trying to destroy him by making mad, resurrecting Juliet was a brilliant move. The number of secrets that woman knew about him could lead to his ruin. He rubbed his temple and inhaled slowly, searching for a semblance of peace. There was a small rap at the door.

"Yes," he barked irritably.

The door opened.

"It's just me."

He raised his head and saw that it was Ruth. He felt momentarily sorry for having yelled, though not enough for the sentiment to manifest into an apology.

"I'm leaving," she said.

"What?" He sat up in his chair his heartbeat accelerating at the ramifications of her statement.

"I'm babysitting this Professor Curtis. Some small town outside Oxford. Adam says were short handed so I'm…" She made a gesture with her hand.

"Ah, yes." He relaxed, the vague memory of a discussion with Adam surfacing in his mind. "Well, hopefully, it should all be routine."

"That's just it, I don't know what the routine is. I've never been out in the field before."

"Are you sure?" He cocked his head, certain that she had been off the Grid considering the number of operations in which she had been involved.

"Yes." She inhaled deeply. "I mean, I've had some training. Adam told me to use my natural cunning."

He tempered a smile at the use of her words but let her continue.

"I'm wondering if you had a few pointers."

"Just sit with him, keep him out of trouble. See what he knows about Monroe."

She nodded her head. "Any suggestions?"

"You're a woman."

Her eyes narrowed and her mouth opened slightly as if she wasn't sure if she had heard him correctly.

"I mean, use flattery, or see if he values intelligence. I'm sure you've dealt with your share of ageing malcontents who think they know everything.

The almost imperceptible rise of her eyebrow alerted him to the reflexive nature of the comment. He cleared his throat and reached up to smooth down his tie only to realise he wasn't wearing one. He had taken it off at some point in the morning and had forgotten where he had put it. He patted the papers on his desk, thinking it lay under one.

"I'm sure you'll do fine," he said, hoping to wrap up the conversation. "Just follow your instinct."

She nodded but remained standing in front of him.

"Was there something else?"

"The woman you were talking to..."

"Juliet Shaw." He grimaced as he continued to search for his tie under a folder.

"Is she with us permanently?"

"Not if I can help it."

Her eyes followed his movements as he searched about his desk. "So you know her?"

"We worked together in Paris."

"Paris," she echoed.

The soft timbre of her voice stilled his hands and he raised his eyes to her. Did he detect a note of jealousy? No, he was imagining things.

"It was many years ago."

The look she gave him was reminiscent of the ones he used to get from Jane when he wasn't being completely forthright - about Juliet. The similarity was eerie. He looked away. He didn't owe her an explanation. He was not about to divulge the details of his previous entanglements to his analyst.

"There's one in your drawer," she calmly informed him.

"What?"

"A tie. You keep an extra tie in your bottom drawer."

She turned on her heels and left the office.

It was on the tip of his tongue to call her back, but she was out of earshot. He watched her through the glass as her short, quick steps took her to the end of the Grid, her tiny figure all but lost in the chaos. He began to doubt the wisdom of sending his best analyst off the Grid and was admittedly slightly worried about her lack of field training. A while back, he had promised himself he would give her some pointers but the opportunity to educate her had never arisen. She was an intelligent woman, she would handle it well. He needed to pull all his thoughts back to a professional level. It was never prudent to become overly dependent on someone. He had to let her go sometime.

.

The deep brown of her outfit stood out in stark contrast to the white of the corridor wall. Skirt down to her ankles, sleeves covering her arms, a patch of skin visible below her ponytail, it would make any Victorian proud. Harry stood at the far end of the hall, studying her, the slope of her shoulders the tilt of her head, curious as to why she was standing alone. Facing away from him, one foot crossed behind the other, she leaned against the wall as if it were holding her up. He briefly thought about walking away, leaving her as she was, granting her a moment of peace, but he had not seen her in what felt like days. He had promised himself that he would let go of his thoughts about her but he was inextricably drawn to her, like a man who did not know he was thirsty until he saw a glass of water. He knew that she could hear the click of his heels as he walked toward her, but she made no move to acknowledge him, so he walked around to stand in front of her.

"How are you?"

"Tired." She kept her eyes closed. "Haven't slept in days."

"Neither have I."

He joined her against the wall, the shoulder of his suit brushing the concrete as he crossed his arms to mirror her. She opened her eyes and looked at him. He let himself drift for a moment in their sea of blue. He had missed them, missed her, missed the serenity that her presence gave him. During the pandemonium of the past few days, there had been no time to think of her, but now he realised how much he depended on her, how her presence sustained him. He couldn't help but think of the last time they had stood like this, alone in the hall, the teasing intimacy of that conversation. Could he recapture it? The air between them was different, events had battered them, her spark had visibly dimmed, but she gave him a tiny smile.

"You liked that bit about Curtis' cat, didn't you? When Adam said he wanted to introduce its tail to a plug socket."

"Man after my own heart."

"If I had to live with Curtis I'd probably introduce my own tail to a socket."

He smiled at her quip. "You did a good job getting information out of him."

She straightened up from the wall and blinked, rousing herself from her idleness. "I see you survived without me."

"We muddled along."

"How did you figure out the bomber was Owen Foster?"

"Juliet trawled through footage."

"Ah, yes. Good thing she was here."

The note of jealousy was unmistakable this time, but he suspected it was more to do with the outsourcing of her usual job than anything to do with him.

"Don't worry, she's after bigger fish than us. She's angling for Securities Coordinator.

"I'm not worried." She didn't make eye contact. "It's only that you said in the car that you needed me…"

"I do."

She was handing him pieces but he couldn't quite put the puzzle together. The energy between them had shifted and he felt a tinge of dismay. The intimacy that was promised earlier had evaporated and he didn't know why. He knew her well enough to understand that silence usually drew her out. He waited for her to speak.

"They shot him point blank."

"Curtis?"

"Mark," she clarified. "He drove me out to Oxford. I found him in the car. He was our driver from this morning. His wife just had a baby."

Harry ran a hand over his eyes. She rocked on her heels pulling herself in tighter, retreating further away from him.

"Don't worry, I'll send her flowers," she said, bitter recrimination in her voice.

He bent his head down to her, keeping his voice low and calm. "It's unfortunate, I wish it were otherwise but were so close to catching these people."

"Is it really worth it, Harry?"

Her clipped tone and hard look were reminiscent of Tom. He didn't respond immediately, trying to gauge her emotional state. She was tired, she had seen too much, nerves balancing on the edge.

"Because I'm not sure how much more I can take."

Before he could respond, a voice called to him from the other end of the hall.

"If it's not too much trouble Harry, I'd like to remind you we're still in the midst of a national crisis."

He closed his eyes. Juliet. Inhaling angrily at the interruption, he turned to the woman and gave her a steely-eyed glare.

"I'll be with you in a minute."

He turned back to Ruth but she was halfway down the corridor. If he followed her it would no doubt send a message to Juliet regarding the analyst's importance to him. He let out a low breath of frustration. He narrowed his eyes at Juliet, resenting everything that her appearance entailed. Haughty, ruthless and admittedly still sexy, she was the embodiment of every reason why fraternising with colleagues was a bad idea. Secrets told on pillows never remained in the bedroom. She held her knowledge of Operating Omega over him like a guillotine. Even though he had offered his resignation to the Home Secretary he knew the man was loathed to take it, and that had bought him some time. Needless to say, he couldn't risk any other secrets coming to light. If she didn't use Ruth against him someone else would. Any amorous thoughts for his analyst would have to stay just that.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13 - Like Pulling Petals off a Flower

How many hospitals had he walked through in his career? Far too many for his liking, Harry conceded. The trouble was once inside they all looked the same. Harry followed behind a young nurse, her rod straight back leading him through the maze of doors and corridors onto the emergency ward. He prepared himself for the worst but hoped for the best. A hurried message from Adam had told him that Ruth was slightly banged up and that he was dropping her off at the A&E as a precaution. Harry tried not to let his imagination run away with what exactly 'slightly banged up' could mean. As his heels tapped on the worn linoleum of the hospital floor, he knew that the urgency he felt was not entirely to do with the physical condition of his analyst but more with her mental state. After the business with Shining Dawn and the loss of her driver, he was worried that she may be on the precipice of leaving. Although just as she had done after the death of Andrew Forestal, she had returned to work and diligently carried on with her duties. Harry had been in the business long enough to know that facades held cracks, and one small tap could cause everything to crumble

They rounded the corner of the casualty ward, the occupants hidden behind stripped green curtains, and he was thankful that he didn't have to search behind each one. Stopping in front of a curtain, the nurse pulled it back a discreet distance revealing the dishevelled form of his analyst. Ruth sat on the gurney, her head snapping up when the curtain rings clattered along the metal rod. Recognising Harry, she gave him a brilliant smile, the wattage of which made his heart skip a beat.

"Harry," she exclaimed, delighted to see him as if she were entertaining a guest.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Adam insisted I come here. Just some bumps and bruises. Never been tossed out of the back of a van before."

"Has anyone been to see you?"

"No, I've just been sitting here. I'm glad you came. I don't have a phone. I was about to leave."

She spoke with a rapid-fire intensity that he had not seen since her first days on the Grid. Cheeks flushed, eyes flashing at him a brilliant blue; it was obvious that her state was fueled by adrenaline. It was a good sign and he allowed himself a small breath of relief. At some point, the gravity of her encounter would sink in and she would envision all the disastrous outcomes of her scenario, but until then he would relish this side of her. His eyes ran over the new creature that sat before him. She wore a light green turtleneck and dark brown trousers. A white puff jacket streaked with mud sat beside her on the gurney. Unfettered by the restrictions of the Grid, she had an untamed quality about her. Her hair was mussed up, strands breaking free of the elastic and hanging about her face. A dried leaf was lodged above her ear as if she were a dryad. Without thinking, he raised his hand to pull it out. Frowning, she defensively raised her hand ready to swat him away. She reminded him of a feral cat he and his brother had found as boys - a tiny calico thing that had called to them with soft meows. They had coaxed the animal to their house with food, only for it to turn on them with ragged claws the moment they wanted to pet it. Maybe that's why he hated cats.

"There's something in your hair," he stated calmly, not wanting to alarm her.

Searching with her fingers, she found the spot, but without the aid of a mirror, she was unable to dislodge the piece of foliage. Harry tilted his head, asking permission.

"May I?"

The question felt strangely courtly. Would he have asked anyone else permission to extract a leaf from their hair? Would he have cared if anyone else was in a disarray? She nodded at him. He slowly reached up and found the leaf, carefully slipping his fingers under a few strands of hair to get a better hold. Even in its tussled state, her hair was soft and smooth to his touch. He paused for a moment, the intimacy of the gesture suddenly presenting itself. His nostrils flared slightly. The scent of fresh air and damp earth clung to her, intermixed with a subtler element that only he could detect. Danger. It was strangely alluring. Transfixed by this discovery, he held his breath. Her eyes narrowed as she studied his palm. A glance down at her chest told him that she too had stopped breathing. Letting out a slow breath, he removed the leaf from her hair and crumpled it in his hands, letting the detritus fall onto the floor. The completion of the act released her from her silence.

"I phoned Adam, he told me to wait but the tulips were in the window. I just wanted to check on Auntie May. It was all my fault. I should have done what he said."

"Yes, you should have." His voice held the slight censure of an annoyed parent.

"I found her in the tub, Harry. They drowned her."

"I know."

"They held a knife to my throat and all I could think was that I was next." She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, hand shaking slightly, the residue of shock. "When Adam came I thought I was saved. But Moran took us and dumped us in the woods. He wanted to hunt us." Her words spilt out, her expression changing as she relived the incident. "Adam told me to run, but I couldn't. I couldn't just leave him there to be hunted down like an animal." She looked at him, a tremulous smile on her lips. "Funny, how a piece of wood took down a man with a crossbow."

It was hard to fathom that the woman he knew as a twitchy desk officer had escaped a madman and then returned to bash him on the head. Part of him listened to her story, while the Section Head in him evaluated her performance. She was holding up remarkably well.

"I asked Adam if he wanted me to hit Moran again." she continued. "He said only if I wanted to. So I did. Then he stopped me before I could do it again."

"There's a fine line between self-defence and unnecessary force. It's a line that lawyers like to exploit."

The tilt of her chin held a note of defiance, her chest expanding as her breaths grew deeper. A fire had been ignited in her belly and he couldn't help but feel a tinge of admiration.

"For the first time in a long while, I felt as if I had the power. I wanted to hit him again and again. I wanted to hit him for all the racist things he said, for all the pain he had caused those families. I wanted to hit him for Auntie May. And then I wanted to hit him for Mark the driver, and then for Danny and Andrew and -"

"Ruth."

Cutting her off, he took a step closer, the proximity of his body silencing her list of names. It was a list that would soon rival his own. Her eyes darted around the cubicle, acknowledging that their only privacy was the security of a flimsy curtain.

"Was it wrong?" she asked in a whisper. "Was it wrong to feel that way?"

"Anger is good. When it's properly directed."

"I don't want to be angry, not like Moran."

"That's why it needs to be focused and contained. Used judiciously."

"How do you stop it from taking over?" She looked up at him, eyes wide like a child. "I worry that we might become infected with it. We see so much. The underbelly of humanity."

He suppressed a smile, wanting to tell her that the ability to access one's darker nature was a powerful tool, he had taken down many enemies that way, but he was afraid that thought might scare her.

"We talked about it once - the reason we do this. Protect that place inside you, don't let anyone touch it."

He wanted to reach up and press his palm over the spot where her heart resided to illustrate that it still beat with good intentions, but knew he could never do that. She shifted on the gurney, the restlessness of her energy affecting him. The confines of the examination area felt far too small. He wanted to set her free.

"Do you want to leave?" he asked.

She met his eyes and he realised that he had asked more than a simple question; that she had indeed been thinking of leaving the Service. He waited, steeling himself for her response. With an unwavering gaze, she nodded at him.

"Yes."

"Do you want to go home?"

"No, I want to go back to the Grid. Back to work."

He inhaled, his chest swelling with pride. This woman, his protege, she was a fighter. She would not give up. She would never leave him.

Picking up her coat, she slid down off the gurney and stepped before him. As she reached for the curtain, he possessively placed his palm on the small of her back. Her fingers stilled on the fabric and her movement halted. He let his hand rest on her back, feeling the indent of her spine under the soft wool of her top. It was a gesture he had done many times in the past; there had been a number of occasions where he had placed his hand on the back of someone to usher them out. As he reflected on the act, he was beset with the thought that she might regard it as an unwanted overture. He let his hand fall away. Her head turned to him, and he studied her profile. A look of disappointment crossed her face as if she wanted him to put his hand back, but it quickly disappeared. He was imaging things.

She pulled open the curtain and the clatter of metal rings announced their return to the harried world.

.

The Grid at night was a world unto itself. Far from the blinding bustle of the day, a skeleton staff laboured under the haze of subdued lamps. In the middle of the technical suite, sat a round table illuminated by the blue hue of monitors. Harry leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs under the table, unable to shake the band of tension that corded his neck. They were basically flying blind; the operation was happening a number of countries away, inside the hold of a container truck. His Section Chief was no more than a blip on the radar. It was too late to question the wisdom of letting Adam masquerade as a Circassian migrant, and admittedly he had not put up much resistance to stop the idea. There was a part of him that envied Adam, the ability to still go out into the field and risk everything. The greater the risk, the greater the reward. If they could sway Yazdi to betray Prince Hakim the risk will have been well worth it. He ran a hand over his face, his skin slightly clammy, the residue of almost twenty-four hours with sleep. He felt a pang of regret for poor Scarlet. His housekeeper would make sure she had been walked and fed, but he regretted the lack of companionship he was able to give her. She should have more. It was for purely selfish reasons that he kept her; a greeting when he came home, an ear for his mutterings, a warm body in the bed.

He glanced at the laptop screen, aware that he had promised Malcolm he would stay vigilant. Nothing. A fact that was neither good nor bad so he chose to come down on the side of good. Adam had made it safely from Turkey to Hungary, it wouldn't do to lose him now. Harry stifled a yawn, thoughts emptying from his mind, his eyelids growing heavy as the hum of the machines lulled him into a half-trance.

Through half closed eyes, he saw a figure standing silhouetted in the doorway. He remained motionless, watching as it raised its arms slightly as if beckoning him. The lateness of the hour, the lack of rest and food momentarily played with his senses and he wondered if it was a hallucination. Perhaps it was the Angel of Death coming to collect long overdue debts. Or the Angel of Redemption finally coming to grant him peace. He inhaled deeply and blinked his eyes, clearing his mind. It was neither of those things - only a mere mortal. He could tell who it was by the tilt of her head and the way her skirt flared at her hips. It was the woman he was spending too much time thinking about. Granted, he only allowed himself to think of her in the small hours of the morning, but here it was, the hand of the clock well past midnight, and she wasn't in his thoughts but very much present in reality. The backlight from the Grid cast her face in shadow and he was unable to read her expression. She hung back, for what reason he did not know, but even in the darkness, he could tell by the slight wobble to her head that she was thinking. He straightened up in his chair, the creak of the wheels breaking the silence. As she moved toward him, he could see that she was carrying two bottles and packet of sandwiches. She hesitated before sitting down.

"Where's Fiona?"

"Stretching her legs."

"And Malcolm?"

"Gone to the loo."

She nodded, swaying slightly, unsure of how to proceed. There had been a nervousness to her questions, and her eyes darted about as if she was leary of the fact that they were alone. Her behaviour puzzled him, but he said nothing, content to run his eyes over her. Her hair hung loosely about her shoulders, softly framing her face, and she wore a top he had not seen before. It was pale green, the colour of a dried leaf. She looked at the seat beside him, the one recently occupied by Fiona and then back at the chair she had vacated. He silently urged her to come and sit beside him. If she sat beside him, he could casually drape his arm over the back of her chair as he had done in the past. The opportunity for such gestures had been lacking as of late. Ever since Juliet had shown up, Ruth had managed to keep a subtle distance from him, putting a colleague between them at briefings, a desk separating them during conversations. He let himself speculate that his attraction to her might not be one-sided, that she saw him as more than her boss and that she was trying to curtail it. He missed the little frissons of electricity that passed between them. He wondered if given time they would dissipate. Maybe that was for the best.

In the end, she chose her old seat, leaving an empty chair between them.

"I got something for Fiona." She set the food down on the table. "Sorry, I didn't think to bring you anything."

"I'm fine."

"I was going to get a coffee but I opted for this mango drink instead ."

"I would have gone for the coffee."

"I can't drink caffeine so late at night. It stops me from sleeping."

"I don't sleep."

Their eyes met across the table, unspoken thoughts tumbling forth, of restless nights and waking dreams, of warm beds and half-clad limbs wrapped in tangled sheets. How did she sleep? On her side? Her back? What did she wear or not wear to bed? By the slight widening of her eyes, he suspected that similar thoughts swirled in her mind. She broke contact first, looking down the sandwiches on the table, her fingers unwrapping the plastic.

"They only had egg salad. Not my favourite."

"I don't mind it."

Her fingers stilled for a moment on the plastic. Taking one half of the sandwich, she held it towards him. "Would you like one?"

She offered it to him with the sincerity of a school girl trading her lunch. He shook his head.

"You have it."

"You need to eat too."

Thinking it rude to refuse the gesture, he took the sandwich from her hand. "Thank you," he said softly. He took a bite, briefly contemplating the wisdom of eating a sandwich from a vending machine. "Not bad, though nothing beats a good ham and cheese."

"What about your poor heart," she chided, a teasing quality to her voice.

He chewed on the sandwich, a wry half-smile on his lips. "Luckily, my heart has turned to stone."

She stared at him, stopping in mid-bite. His eyes challenged her to remember that it was she who accused him of such after her disciplinary hearing. Clearing her throat, she had the grace to look away. He rocked in his chair enjoying the discomfort he caused her.

"You could have sent someone out," he said, changing the subject.

"We're short staffed."

He nodded as he took another bite. "How do you feel about Mr Younis?"

"I like him," she offered up her opinion without hesitation.

"I mean as an officer."

"Oh." She focused on her sandwich, dropping her lids to hide her thoughts. "His tactics are very original."

"We need young people. I was thinking of hiring another junior officer."

"We could use some more desk personnel. We haven't replaced Sam."

He relished her use of the word 'we'as if the two of them were parenting the section, guiding it along. He watched her from across the table as she nibbled on her sandwich. She paused to take a drink, her lips pressing against the mouth of the bottle. The pores of his skin grew tight, tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. What would it be like to have a proper dinner with her? Would they talk of other things besides work? Would her lips press against him? The subtle squeak of the lid as she replaced on the bottle brought him back. Her eyes darted to one side, looking for someone to come and interrupt their interlude.

No one came. They remained alone.

Deciding that she may as well take advantage of the privacy, she leaned on the table and spoke to him quietly.

"Why does he do it?" she asked. "Why does Adam risk his life like this?"

"To serve his country." Harry shrugged his shoulders.

"But to put himself in such danger. It's just so..."

"Reckless?"

"Yes," she nodded. "He has a wife and a son."

"So did I."

The words came out before he could evaluate how much they revealed. She cocked her head, processing the information.

"Why did you do it?"

"Someone has to."

Her gaze fell away, brow furrowed as she thought through his answer.

"Do you think relationships can survive this sort of pressure?" she asked in a whisper.

"Are you asking me if that's why my marriage failed?"

"No," she quickly assured him.

"I think Adam and Fiona are a success as a couple because they're both willing to go to the edge."

"I suppose the idea of risk is very attractive to some people."

He thought back to when he had found her in the hospital. She had tasted danger, knew the thrill of embracing it, defeating it. He wondered if he could coax her to taste a little more. The wheels of his chair squeaked as he inched closer to her. Even though the empty seat remained between them, it was no barrier to the connection that was building. Her eyes remained fixed on him. He rested his elbow on the table and spoke to her in a low voice.

"It's intoxicating."

Blinking, she licked her lips, considering where the conversation was leading.

"I suppose Juliet is one of those people."

Minx. She was fishing, trying to find out information on him and Juliet. What exactly did she know? He wouldn't reveal anything.

"Yes, Juliet likes to take risks." He hoped his words would goad her along, awaken her competitive nature. "She's always pushing the boundaries."

"I wish I was brave enough to push boundaries."

"You are," he assured her, his voice like gravel. "You saved Adam."

His words hit the mark. Her eyes sparkled a little brighter, lips parting as her breath became shallow. He held her gaze, pulling her in, daring her to come to the edge with him. In that moment, he did not think about the consequences of having her, of protocol and professionalism, he was fully immersed in the opportunity. Senses heightened, muscles taught, he sat perfectly still, waiting for her to make a move. She leaned a little closer. Under her perfume, he could faintly detect the scent of the wild, the darker aspects of her nature that he had glimpsed. What could he unleash? What other tastes lay beneath her perfume?

A polite cough sounded from outside the room.

Startled, they both sat up in their chairs. Harry turned to see Malcolm standing in the doorway. Ruth turned away from him, fingers fumbling as she found her juice and took a long drink. His heart beat in double time and he blinked rapidly. A mixture of disappointment and anger at the interruption stirred within him, along with a huge dose of self-censure. Fool, he was not supposed to act on his thoughts, or let anyone discover them for that matter. He straightened his tie and tried to regain his composure. He would need more than juice to accomplish that. Mumbling something about needing to stretch his legs, he excused himself and headed towards his office. He needed a bracing splash of cold water or a scotch. He opted for the scotch.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14 - Alone and Lonely

The erratic tread of her footsteps sounded over his head, her heels tapping on the hardwood floor, becoming muffled as she moved onto the carpet. Or at least, Harry assumed it was carpet as he stood in her hallway impatiently waiting. Raising his eyes to the ceiling, he contemplated which room was her bedroom. As much as he wanted to envision her upper floor, there wasn't' time for such luxury. He peered out the stained glass of her door looking for an all-clear sign from Adam.

"Ruth!" he called to her in a tone that brooked no dallying.

"I'm coming," she answered, voice floating from the depths of some mysterious room.

Folding his arms, Harry leaned back against a shelf that was poised atop a radiator. His shoulder accidentally brushed a mirror, the glass clattering against the wall as it swung precariously. Her footsteps stopped. He stood up and hurriedly turned to straighten the glass before she came down. Righting the mirror, he took a moment to relish the silence, thankful to be away from Hicks and his annoying chatter. He let out a sigh. It was his fate to always protect the more distasteful elements of society. He let out a second, deeper sigh. Oh, how the evening had started out with an entirely different promise.

The phone had rung close to midnight, and he had been pleasantly intrigued to hear her voice on the other end, beckoning him over to her house. He had suspected that her earlier offer of a sympathetic ear had been made out of pity, but a late night call - that was a different breed of invitation. Of course, any thoughts of an illicit tryst had been summarily dismissed when she revealed the true nature of the call. On the drive over to her house, he had soundly chastised himself for even thinking that she would ever initiate a late night rendezvous; with him, of all people. Even now, he grimaced at the absurdity of the thought. He chalked up his overactive imagination to the events of the day. He was still reeling from the death of Clive McTaggart. When he had finally arrived at her door, he had found another man ensconced in her kitchen, looking very much at home. For the life of him, he couldn't fathom the relationship between Ruth and Hicks. They talked in a sort of semaphore and exhibited a familiarity that bespoke a certain intimacy. Why on earth had she ever hooked up with him? He was completely unworthy of her. It made his molars grind. Fueled by these irritable thoughts, he moved to the bottom of her stairs.

"Ruth!" he bellowed.

He stood with his hand on the newel post, one foot on the stair, stopping himself in mid-motion, momentarily taken aback by how far he had ventured into her house. He had been in the kitchen, sat amongst the Bordeaux coloured cupboards and amber pot lights, drinking a surprisingly good glass of single malt, but her upper floor held a certain forbidden quality. It was her sanctuary. The last veil, the one final layer not yet revealed. Dare he look behind it? He took another step on the stair. It was wholly within his purview to march up there, grab her by the hand and haul her down to the waiting car. And if she happened to be in her bedroom, well, so be it. He moved to take another step, but her voice stopped him.

"I need to get a few things," she yelled.

"We don't have time now. I'll send someone round tomorrow."

She came down to the landing, obviously deciding it was easier to talk to him if they were in roughly the same space. He stopped on the stairs, caught short by the sight of her figure framed by another stained glass window. She gave him a curious look as if she could read the guilt in his face over his boundary-breaking thoughts.

"I don't want a stranger going through my clothes."

"I'll do it. I mean…" He closed his eyes and inhaled. "I'll get someone to escort you back tomorrow."

He motioned with his arm for her to follow him down the stairs. With a reluctant nod, she acquiesced to his plan.

"I feel like I'm forgetting something."

"It will only be for a night or two."

"The cats."

"Cats?" he echoed, distinctly remembering only one.

"A friend was moving so I said I would take her tabby."

Friend? Of course, she would have friends; there would be other people in her life besides her colleagues from the Grid. That did not stop the revelation from being any less annoying. Her world should only consist of the Service. And him.

"What are you doing?" he called after her as she walked down the hall toward the kitchen.

"I have to feed them," she answered over her shoulder. "Fidget! Fidg!"

Harry squinted in pain as her voice reached a register that would make Scarlett's ears bleed.

"Ruth! We don't have time for this."

Harry started down the hall, prepared to bodily drag the woman back to the door. As he walked along, a ball of fur whizzed past him, careening perilously close to his feet, causing him to stumble as he avoided the animal. How he hated cats. Another one followed in its wake. The felines ran into the kitchen and straight to Ruth as she poured food into a dish. They purred loudly as they rubbed up against their mistress' leg.

"Mommy's going away for a couple of days, so you've got to be good." She picked up a cat and buried her face in its fur. "I'll miss you."

"Ruth," he brought her back to the moment.

The cat jumped out of Ruth's arms, far more interested in food than the need for affection. Fickle creatures.

"I'll just check the gas."

"Ruth!"

"Alright, alright."

She moved to walk past him but the doorway was not wide enough. They danced for a moment, as she figured out how to exit without touching him.

"I need my coat. Where did I put it?" She turned around in a circle. "I got a bit discombobulated when I found Gary here."

She went to the door, while Harry looked in the living room. The white coat lay thrown across the couch.

"Here it is." He picked it up and carried out to her.

As if from habit, he held it up for her to slip into and she, with unthinking naturalness, turned round to accept the offer. Their movements were carried out a with the fluidity of an everyday occurrence. His hands paused on her shoulders for the briefest of seconds, the cloud of her hair coming tantalizingly close to his face. Is this what it would be like if they were a couple? Putting on her coat, rushing her out the door. If they were a couple, he would turn her around and back her up against the door, plant a resounding kiss on her mouth and instantly quell all this flapping about. Forget about the door, he would take her upstairs and learn for himself the layout of her second floor.

She stepped away from him and reached over to a hook on the wall to get her scarf, leaving Harry to wonder how the scarf had managed to be hung up while the coat had been left to flounder.

"I don't know why I have to go to a safe house," she muttered petulantly.

"You might have been seen with him. You've been put in a compromising position."

She wound the scarf around her neck and then attempted to do up her buttons. The fringe from the scarf impeded her progress.

"You know just as much as I do, and you're going back to your own home."

Losing patience, Harry brushed her fingers away from a button and proceeded to do it up himself.

"Would you like to come to mine then?"

The room froze around them.

He had spoken without thought, the question coloured with his usual irritable sarcasm. As the words hung in the air, they quickly lost their original bite and took on the aura of an invitation. His hands stilled on the buttons of her coat. The rise and fall her chest all but ceased. Pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he looked down to where his hands were placed. They rested on her sternum, mere layers of fabric separating him from her breasts. His fingers curled reflexively over the wool. Raising his gaze, he met her eyes. They stared back at him, dark and unreadable. His lips parted, breath stirring, but he remained wordless. Would she ever accept such an invitation? She swayed slightly as if in mute response to his silent question. The hairs on his arm tingled beneath his jacket, electrified by her proximity. It would only take a gentle tug on her lapels to bring her closer. Close enough to brush his lips across hers. Do it, quickly. Leave her wondering what had happened. Still in partial command of his faculties, he evaluated his surroundings. The hall light shone brightly above their heads, they were near the stained glass window, their silhouettes would be visible to the street. The team would see them. And who knew what other elements were watching the house at that moment. He let his hands drop away.

"You wouldn't be safe at my house."

He whispered it more as a warning to himself than as an excuse to her. His throat tightened. Had his voice revealed too much? She bit her lip and closed her eyes, breath returning to her chest. He studied her face and blinked when her eyes flew open, catching him, holding him with a look.

"Remember to send someone round to look after my cats. Contrary to what you might think, they would welcome affection."

He ran his eyes over her, the hot air of a reply swirling in his mouth. This woman who dealt in code was sending him a message. He was certain of it. Did she think the only reason that he held back was from fear of rejection? If only. His life was not his own, there would always be people watching. He held his tongue and pulled his lips into a grim line. Now was not the time.

Stepping away, he returned to the window. He placed a hand against the door frame, leaning on it for momentary support, the wood reassuringly stable. He squinted out into the night.

"It looks like no one has taken out your friend."

"He's not my friend," she responded tersely.

Reaching past him, she released the deadbolt. It was a rickety affair; no wonder Hicks had been able to break in. He would have to get someone in to revamp her security measures. With lowered eyes, she jerked open the door. She was mad; at the situation or him, he wasn't entirely sure. He only needed to get her into the car and off to the safe house. Then everything would be fine. Before he moved, he made a silent vow that if he could not have her, no man would. He stepped before her and walked out of the house.

...

Oversized flakes of freshly minted snow floated down from the darkened sky, landing on Harry's face like gentle kisses. They melted instantly as they hit his warm skin. At some point, he would have to invest in a hat, but he firmly believed any unnecessary friction on his head would deplete his already thinning hair. The coolness of the night was a welcome reprieve from the stale air and oppressive conversation of the club. As he walked from his car, he donned his gloves, pushing the leather between his fingers. He kept his gait steady not wanting to telegraph the panic that was rising inside him. He glanced around, surveying the lay of the land. It was a pretty little street if not for the red and blue lights strobing across the facades of the houses. Approaching a police barricade, he held up his identification, frowning at the number of emergency personnel already on the scene. His heart fell into his stomach and he tried to stay calm. Remnants of a broken glass hung from a second story window, shards littering the street. The pavement was covered with piles of glass from hollowed out car windows. The standard line of a gas explosion might not suffice this time, especially if the neighbours had heard the gunfire. Squinting against a bank of headlights, he saw a group of people standing by an ambulance. He couldn't tell if she was among them. He walked over and immediately recognised Zaf. His heart thudded in his chest but he did not ask the question that burned within him. Instead, he controlled his anxiety, his voice collected and cool.

"Where's Adam?"

"There was a witness," Zaf informed him. " The reporter girl. He's gone to talk to her."

Harry cocked his head as he took in the intriguing bit of information.

"Everyone okay?"

"Yeah, for the most part."

Harry looked around. "Where is…"

"I take it you're not looking for Hicks."

Harry gave the young man a level look. Zaf gestured over to a low retaining wall.

Taking a few steps, Harry heaved a sigh of relief as he saw Ruth sitting on the wall. Apparently unscathed, she was huddled in a silver emergency blanket. Beside her sat Hicks, cigarette dangling from his fingers as he bent his head close to her in conversation. Harry tempered the urge to march over there, grab the man by the scruff of the neck and yank him away from his analyst. If not for Hicks, Ruth would be sleeping soundly in her own home. He had barged into her life and brought this calamity down upon her. He clenched his teeth. At this rate, the enamel would soon be worn off. He came to a stop in front of her.

"At least I didn't find you in the A&E this time." It was a poor attempt at humour and his smile did not reach his eyes.

Hicks pointed an accusing finger at Harry.

"If this is your idea of a safe house, mate, you're in the wrong business."

Harry ignored the man and spoke to Ruth.

"Where's your coat?"

"It's inside."

An officer passed by and Harry hailed him down. "Could you get Miss Evershed's coat."

The officer nodded.

"Oi, I've got a coat too," Hicks yelled as the officer walked away.

Harry turned to Ruth. "You never phoned."

She looked at him in puzzlement.

"When you reached the safe house you were supposed to phone me."

"You think that would have stopped this from happening?" she asked wryly.

Hicks took a long drag from his cigarette and leaned toward Harry, confidentially.

"Listen, if you're looking for some advice on how to handle her-"

"Gary," Ruth warned.

"Ruthie doesn't always listen. She's a bit of a spitfire."

The last statement earned him a resounding swat in the chest.

"What? It was meant as a compliment, darlin'." He gave Ruth a roguish grin.

Harry cringed at the use of the endearment. His fingers flexed in his leather gloves.

"Mr Younis needs to have a word with you."

"Why? He saw the whole thing. He was there."

"You'll find him over by the ambulance."

Tossing away his cigarette, Hicks stood up and headed in the direction of the ambulance. Ruth eyed Harry with suspicion.

"Zaf doesn't really need to talk to him, does he?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders. She knew him all too well. Shivering, she pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. He wanted to offer her his coat but that would be far too intimate a gesture. It would be misinterpreted by the crowd of people around them. Instead, he hitched up his trousers and sat down beside her.

"Are you alright?"

"My ears are still ringing."

"It will pass."

She looked at him and tried to smile. "Guess it's a good thing I didn't go to your place.

He made no comment, only sat looking at her, thankful that she had made it through the ordeal unhurt. She rocked on the wall.

"It was horrible, Harry. The flashing, the noise. I was beyond fear." She slouched, the last shred of her composure faltering. "God, I just want to go home. I'd give anything for a long, hot bath."

He closed his eyes, steeling himself against the image of her in a bath. Her arm pressed against his, her head tilting slightly towards him. Her shoulders lifted a fraction as if she were breathing him in. He probably smelled of the club, of fine cigars and aged malt. He prayed that she did not hold it against him; that while she was in the middle of a gun battle he was reclining in a leather chair with a glass in one hand. Turning his head slightly, he could smell the residue of gunfire still clinging to her. The distinct whiff of sharp metal, tinged with spent fireworks and sulphur. He wanted to take her home, wash her off, feed her, take her in like a found cat. His arm longed to wrap around her, pull her close, shield from the chaos that was happening around them. If only they were alone. He silently cursed the crowd, the noise of the police radio, the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles.

The young officer returned with a coat.

"Is this it, Sir?"

"Yes." Harry took the coat from the man. "Thank you."

The wool against his fingertips sparked the memory of standing in her hallway, a reminder of an opportunity lost. He ran his thumb reflectively over the collar, stopping when he felt a small object beneath the fabric. He flipped up the collar. Raising an eyebrow, he looked at Ruth. A mixture of confusion and horror crossed her face.

"What is it?" she whispered.

He unpinned the object and looked at it curiously.

"Tracking device," he mused quietly.

"How did it get there?"

"Did you take a car over?"

"No, I took a taxi."

He glared at her. "Next time, take a pool car. And call me when you arrive."

She nodded. "It's all my fault, Harry. I brought them right here."

"No, you couldn't have known."

"I should have. After that business with Mace-" she stopped short. "Do you think it's him?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "It might explain things. You may have been tapped somewhere inside Thames House."

She shifted on the wall as she hurriedly looked around, moving fractionally closer to him, seeking warmth, protection, something more.

"Is there anywhere safe, Harry?"

Against the bulk of his coat, she looked tiny and lost. Her leg was near his, and with barely a move he made contact, subtly pressing against her. He bunched the fabric of the coat in his hand, silently answering her question. My house. It's safe there. Come back to mine, Ruth. He could ask her. Order her. No one would question his decision. But then, not even his alarm system was infallible.

Adam walked up to them, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders raised against the cold.

"We've got another house lined up. Zaf will take you over."

The small moment they had found amidst the chaos melted away.

Hearing Adams news, Ruth shifted away from Harry and took a fortifying breath. She stood up from the wall and Harry rose with her. Adam walked away, but she did not immediately follow him. Turning to Harry, her eyes darted about, coming to rest on him with a look of expectation. Her lips moved as if she were about to ask him a question. He knew what she was thinking. An opportunity regained, should he care to take it. Now was the time to speak. Were he to do it what temptation would befall him. He couldn't risk it. Who was watching them had killed Clive and shot up an apartment block in an attempt to end Hicks. No one was safe. There was only one thing to do.

"You'll be safe with Zaf."

She jerked her head away, her face hardening as her brow drew together in thought. He wasn't rejecting her; he was being cautious, thinking of her welfare. He couldn't tell her that. That was the sort of intimate confession best-whispered in the rooms of her upper floor and that was a realm where he could never venture.

A sharp breeze passed between them, bringing the smell of winter along with it. Even though it was cold, she shrugged off the mylar blanket, letting it fall on the wall behind her, the curve of her shoulder visible beneath her top. If only they were in the warmth of his house, the blanket falling away to reveal so much more. She turned her back to him and waited. The stiffness of her neck told him that she had donned her armour, and he hated to think it was against him. It was for the best. It was probably only some sort of office crush she had for him, heightened by the strain of their circumstances. He held up her coat, and for the second time in as many days, slipped it over her shoulders. He let his arms rest on her back but stopped short of giving her a reassuring squeeze. She bowed her head, and took a moment to compose herself, resigned to the fate of another safe house. She looked up and gave him a brief smile.

"I'd better go."

She turned to walk away.

"Call me when you get there," he called after her.

She continued to weave through the crowd giving no indication that she had heard him. She stopped at the car, coming alongside Zaf and Adam. And Hicks. They formed a tight little group, and Harry was left on the outside. The men ushered Ruth into the car before they each took their own seats.

Harry stood watching as the car drove away. A single flake of snow fluttered down, landing on his now cold skin. It was time for him to go home.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N - Thank you for continuing to follow along and patiently waiting for an update. Thanks also to the lovely souls who have taken a moment to review. You may have gleaned I have a thing about trying to stay in canon but at some point, I'm going to veer away from it while hopefully staying within the realm of possibility._

 _._

Chapter 15 - The Most Attractive Thing About Spying

Dark corners hide dark secrets. The countless corners of the Grid held many secrets. It thrived on calculation and code, but in the twilight hours it fed on secrets and over the years it had collected the darker ones of Harry Pearce. The Grid and the man were intrinsically entwined. He had been there at the inception, moving from Gower Street to Millbank, present through every incarnation of steel and staff. In turn, it had watched the man grow into his role as a Section Head, witnessed vulnerabilities cast aside, replaced by scales of armour, finally arriving at the point where the heart of the Grid and the man were one. The pulsing red of his office wall had born silent witness to rage and recrimination, but ultimately it kept locked within its crimson flecks the whisperings of his unspoken desires.

Across the Grid, the far wall glowed with a russet sheen, a softer reflection of the deeper hue that saturated his office. Strange, that such a light would appear at that particular spot. It surrounded a certain desk, its occupant toiling away, oblivious to the secrets that lay littered at her feet.

The walls of his office watched him, watching her.

A tension hung in the air, the type he usually associated with active operations, but they were still in the nascent stages of the current one. He put it down to the slight misgivings he felt over Fiona's prominent role in entrapping the Syrian Ambassador, but at that moment she was safely lodged within a Service flat, her legend backed stopped to the highest degree. It was obvious that his Section Chief held the same unsettling concerns. Adam prowled about the Grid, picking up folders and putting them down, knowing his wife's mind but ignorant of it's deeper workings. The unpredictability of the human psyche; it was always the one frustrating variable. It sat on the periphery of consciousness waiting to make itself known if one could only access it. Inevitably, it would come to the fore a minute too late, leaving hindsight to mock one's inability to see it. Harry trusted Fiona implicitly but knew that she too had dark corners with secrets.

The Section Chief's restless roaming took him to Ruth's station where he stopped long enough to talk to the analyst. It was so like Tom; how she used to turn and talk to him, gifting him with her special smile. A serpent coiled at the base of his spine. Hand resting on his desk, he curled his fingers into a fist, wrapping around the jealousy that was ripening within him, squeezing it, bringing it under control. Flattening his fingers against the cool wood, he regained the mask of detachment that served him so well. It was only an infatuation, mere tremors not a seismic shift. After the business with Clive McTaggart, they had returned to their to their usual roles, silently agreeing on a mutual professional distance. And it would stay that way.

The walls knew different.

Rising from his chair, he left his silent sanctuary and ventured out into the reality of the Grid.

Silent steps took him over to her station, and with habitual stealth, he stood in her blind spot letting his presence remain unknown. She was on the phone, the receiver cradled to her ear, shoulders hunched as she spoke with a furtive whisper into the mouthpiece. Her monitor was a gallery of passport photos culled from passenger manifests. Emotionless faces staring back at him, reserving their judgment on his motives for coming to see her.

"No, I can't," she said into the phone, pausing as the other party spoke, her body tensing with the need to insert herself into the conversation. "Yes, well, I'm sorry if I gave you that impression." Focused on listening, she absently tapped a pen on her desk. "I don't think that's a good idea." Her head dropped wearily into her hand. "I know you went to some personal risk. I appreciate..." She trailed off, shoulder rising, her agitation becoming more apparent. "I'd prefer it if you didn't call me at work."

From the fragments of her conversation, the wings of his imagination took flight. Who could she be talking to? Unwanted suitor, a former lover, bill collector?

"I'm hanging up now. Yes, yes. Goodbye, Gordon."

She sat back in her chair, releasing a heavy sigh as if the conversation had taken everything out of her.

"Everything alright?" he asked, finally alerting her to his presence.

She jumped in her seat, putting her hand on her chest to still her scattered heart.

"Yes, yes, fine."

A levelled look told her that he did not fully accept her assurances. A smile tugged at her cheeks but it did not fully reach her eyes.

"Really. It was just a contact."

"It sounded like more."

"Were you spying on me?" she challenged him in a tone made of equal parts humour and recrimination.

Weighing the benefits of pressing forward against the possibility that he might learn something that would tempt the sleeping serpent, he held back. For now. He motioned to the faces on her monitor.

"What are you doing?"

"Fiona has me flagging any Syrian passports entering the country."

"What's she looking for?"

"I don't know."

She turned back to her terminal, and with a click of her mouse returned to scanning the photos. She had spent a longer amount of time talking to Adam, and pride raised its head in protest. He was the one who did the dismissing.

"Everything alright with Adam?"

"He wants me to have another look at the videos from the Syrian embassy party."

"What's he looking for?"

"I don't know." She continued to study the photos as she spoke with him. "Apparently, they both think I can magically pull an answer out of a hat."

"You have been known to do so."

"I mean, theoretically everything should be fine. And I keep telling everyone that, but the more I say it, the more hollow it sounds."

His fingers itched to scratch the surface and peel out of her the subject of that phone call. She was hiding something; the lack of eye contact, the rambling, the nervous ticks. Granted, she was at times excitable, especially when in possession of Intel, but there was an added layer to her anxious behaviour. He wanted her to talk to him as she had talked to Adam, to have her full attention, bask in the balm of her smile. Reaching around, he grabbed the back of a chair and guided it next to her. He planted himself down, wheeling into her space, his knee inadvertently brushing up against her. Her hand paused on the mouse. He had her attention.

"What is your gut telling you?"

Turning to him, a look of surprise flitted across her face, taken aback by the fact that he was interested plumbing the depths of her instinct. Fingers moving to her necklace, she considered his question. The neckline of her jumper slipped off of her shoulder, and she paused to straighten it. The garment was no more than a collection of holes sewn together, the colour of the underlying top plainly evident. It was a shade that had become more prevalent in her wardrobe - deep burgundy.

"It's like when a legend is too good," she explained. "There's something not right but I can't put my finger on it. Maybe I just don't understand why Fiona is doing this."

"Ghosts are very powerful; it's very hard to let them go."

What would he do should his ghosts ever return? March out to face them head on as Fiona was doing, or retreat to the safety of the shadows? He hoped he would never have to find out.

"I know, I know. I-" She paused on the precipice of a confession, and he sat forward in his chair, silently urging her to confide in him, but in the end, she held back. "She's has a son. She's putting herself in a potentially dangerous situation." She shook her head. "You're right, she's just like Adam."

"Perhaps she's looking for closure."

"If only there were such a thing."

Her words were tinged with melancholy, arousing his curiosity. What tragedy had befallen this woman, leaving her with wounds that would not heal. It had taken him years to accept that scars of the flesh healed faster than scars of the mind, or the heart for that matter. Still, that knowledge had not stopped him from self-medicating through drink and meaningless encounters. Although, he was certain that she had other means of coping and that too intrigued him. With a small sigh, she continued.

"It's like watching Euripides, where the hero thinks he's in control of his own fate, but his decisions are only leading him closer to a tragic end."

"Or her fate, as the case may be." Raising a brow, he cracked open a door for her to walk through and spill her thoughts.

"We do things for short-term gain without thinking of the repercussions."

Blue eyes looked into him. Yes, there was something she wanted to tell him. Overarching ego wanted to believe it was a confession regarding him, but prudence reigned in the thought. She wouldn't hold out if it was an operational matter, which led him to believe that it was indeed something personal. He should know by now how to unlock her reticence, but he had not attained the role workplace confident, he would have to bide is time until she was ready.

"Fortunately for us, this is real life," he assured her. "Fiona has Malcolm's technology along with the entire team as back up."

"Yes, she does." It was not quite a full-hearted endorsement of his words. " I should get back to these photos, and onto Adam's request."

She sat up in her chair donning the cheerful air that he had come to associate with the cloak that masked her inner troubles. He pushed himself away from her desk.

"Keep me in the loop, if you would."

Absentmindedly nodding, she scrolled through the faces. He walked to back to his office. What was she hiding?

Perhaps if he listened closely, the walls would tell him.

.

The words swam in front of his eyes, black lines blurring on the page. Exhaustion, strain - he refused to admit that the inability to focus was a harbinger of age. Closing his eyes in denial, he leaned an elbow on the desk, massaging the creases of his brow, the one above his left eye stubbornly present no matter how hard he rubbed. A growl from his stomach demanded his attention. He glanced at the half-eaten danish sat on his desk. It was from the morning, though he couldn't be certain. At one time, he had subsisted on nothing more coffee and cigarettes, and three hours of sleep. But those days had gone the way of his dwindling eyesight. If he had the inclination, he could leave the Grid for sustenance, the fresh air would do him good. The mitigating factor was time. He was essentially filling two roles: that of Section Head and Section Chief. Juggling a Russian oligarch, and the NHS, Juliet Shaw and an ageing communist spy. Admittedly, there was a certain exhilaration to being back on the front line, battling wits with an old warhorse like Hugo Ross, one toe back in the frosty ocean of the Cold War. He was under the gun; Whitehall had warned him to back off giving him roughly forty-eight hours before they started asking questions. And he was fighting without his right hand. If Adam hadn't crashed the op, he could have been the go-between with Ross. As it was, he was now packed off to Trig. His fingers stilled, muscles tight, as he tampered the urge to strangle whoever had alerted Adam to Songbird and Oleg Kosakov. At this stage, it was best not to know.

The door to his office rolled on its track, followed by determined footsteps entering his office. The lack of a knock and the cloud of perfume served as a calling card.

"I was the one who told Adam about Songbird."

He inhaled slowly, keeping his eyes lowered and his fingers pressed against his temple. No apology for the interruption, no question if he was busy, no testing the waters. If only she jumped into everything else with such abandon. Why confess when no admission of guilt had been demanded? A stream of epithets danced on his tongue but he curtailed them, instead he spoke with a dangerously low tone.

"I said at the briefing, I didn't want to know who it was."

"Yes, and I know, and I didn't want Zaf or Joe to get in trouble."

A long sigh of irritation blew over his lips.

"I already knew it was you."

Stillness descended on the office as the air of her confession was sucked back into her lungs.

"Then why did you make a point of it at the briefing?"

"I wanted them to think twice before passing on information. And I didn't want to discipline you in front of the junior officers."

"That's never stopped you before."

He gritted his teeth at the thought of having to explain every managerial decision to her. She should know him by now, his mind, how he functioned, understand that with Adam wavering she was all he had left. They needed to hold the line, present a united front, keep the team together, quash any hint of dissension. He blindly reached out to the stale danish, the crust crumbling beneath his fingers and dropped it back down on the paper.

"Is that all you've eaten?" she asked.

"Yes."

"You have to eat more than a danish."

"I had nothing at the house."

"They have services for that."

He looked up at her, eyes still partly shielded by his hand, wanting to ask if she would provide that service, look after him as she had done Fiona. Bring him a sandwich, a drink, something more, satiate a deeper hunger. She shifted on her feet, perhaps sensing the direction of his thoughts. It was not her job to cater to his needs. The decanter of scotch called to him, a far more agreeable caretaker. He walked over to the credenza and poured himself a large glass. Her look of admonishment said more than words and he returned fire with a withering look of superiority. In a fit of spite, he lingered over a long sip, savouring the smokey quality, certain that the calories in the alcohol would hold him over for a few hours.

"You should develop a taste for this."

He paused before he took a second sip, recalling that she had in her house a rather decent bottle of single malt. Funny, as she professed no liking for the drink, leaving him to conclude that she kept it solely to entertain past lovers who invaded her house. The thought needled his already brittle state of mind. Hunger, frustration, the loss of Fiona, the lack of Adam; all of it stirring within him. He wanted to lash out at her, pour his frustration onto her because she was there; because she had the temerity to go behind his back to Adam.

Clearing her throat, she spoke as if she read his thoughts. "How did you know that it was me who told Adam?"

Because he knew her. Because he knew her moves before she did. He finished off the motion of his drink, speaking as he looked into the glass.

"Because you have always demonstrated unfaltering loyalty towards your section Chiefs." It was an irritation spoken out of hunger instead of nursing the resentment as he had done for years, the burr that had bothered him through Tom's tenure and well into Adam's. Having started the thought, he carried on with the companion grievance. "Although, it would be nice if your Section Head were also the beneficiary of such loyalty."

"I am loyal to you."

"Your actions say otherwise."

She looked at him perplexed, having no idea of the grudge he had nurtured for so long.

"I've always done everything you've ever asked of me."

Had she? He could name any number of incidences where she had countered his orders.

"I've packed Adam off to Trig."

"I told you that he didn't want to go."

Her words only reinforced his earlier annoyance that she expected an explanation for his actions and it gave a churlish edge to his words.

"I didn't know I needed to run the operational decisions of this department past you."

"He's not an operation, Harry, he's a person."

"You know what I mean." Another drink filled his glass, followed by another draught, the knot in his neck telling him that there was more to his anger than he had originally suspected.

"We're all he has right now," she continued.

"It's out of my hands. Orders from the DG. He interfered in an active op."

"He knew they were on to Sally. He wanted to get her out before anything happened to her."

"We've discussed this already. It's decided."

At one time the curtness of his tone would have slowed her down but she barrelled on in her defence of Adam.

"Put yourself in his place."

"The man has just lost his wife, he needs time."

"He needs to work."

Slamming his tumbler on his desk, he turned on her, teeth gnashing as he went in for the tender spot, intent on shutting down the conversation.

"Would you want me to return to work if you had just died?"

"I'm not your wife!"

The office held its breath as the walls grew quiet with expectation. He stared at her in disbelief, and her eyes widened with alarm, their words having teetered on the edge of admission. She swayed away from him as if she could take her back her outburst. He stepped toward her, his hand half rising with the impulse to grab her and pull her back into the conversation, latch onto her her with a bruising force, driving home the point the had stumbled upon. For all intents and purposes, they were married. He had spent a more concentrated time with her than he had with his wife; she knew more about his daily life than any partner. She had seen the worst of him, had stood by him. It was true, he had dallied with women since she had started at the section but for the life of him, he couldn't remember their names. They were married in all respects except one. Meeting her eyes, he saw that she too recognized the missing element of their association, how it followed them about, lurking in the corner along with the other secrets, coaxing, tempting, waiting for them. A fissure ran from the base of his spine to the knot in his neck, cracking his conscious, revealing the true source of his anger.

"Who is Gordon?"

"What?"

"A while back, you were talking to a man on the phone. You were very agitated."

"It's nothing."

"Tell me."

He couldn't help himself, he sounded every bit the jealous husband. It was ridiculous. He gathered himself to his full height, tugging down his jacket, reminding himself of position. The reclamation of his stature unsettled her. Looming over her, he demanded a response. She licked her lips, a layer of her composure crumbling.

"It was when we were dealing with Nazim Malek. You said that Special Branch was holding back paperwork on him and you asked if I could get my hands on it."

That was not explanation he was expecting, but it would not be the first time he was presented with an admission that would lead to something far richer.

"Last year," she continued, "There was a conference on data analytics at GCHQ and I met this man Gordon Hopkins and he asked if I wanted to go for a drink. And at the time, I said no, but I remembered he worked in the records office at Special Branch, so I called him up and we went for lunch. And I got the paperwork. But I may have let him form certain expectations about our relationship.

"Relationship?"

"Oh, there is none. No relationship. But he thinks there is. And he's intimated that I illegally gained the records, he may have to go to Oliver Mace."

The blood turned to ice in his veins at the mention of Mace. He could not let that man get involved, discover an opening to exploit, his analyst would end up collateral damage.

"Is Hopkins threatening you?"

"Its nothing that I can't handle."

"No one threatens my officers."

"Well, it's no more dangerous than what Fiona did."

"And look what happened to her."

A film grew across his skin, pores dirty with the seedier side of their business. A reminder of the rot that lay within him, what he had led her to do. She had essentially prostituted herself out on his behest. She was right, it was no different than any other entrapment scheme carried out by any number of agents. But she was a desk spook, somehow above perversion and exploitation. No, he was deluding himself, she was already tainted by his hand and the malfeasance that he had asked of her. His throat tightened, sickened by the thought that if the success of an operation depended on it, he wouldn't hesitate to ask her to debase herself once again. He could, though, rectify this one incident.

"If something ever happens like that, come to me."

She nodded.

"You don't have to worry about anything. It's taken care of."

Her eyes widened, well aware of how he took care of things.

Reaching for the phone, he picked up the receiver, giving her a curt nod of dismissal.

She vacillated, attempted to speak and then thought the better of it. She left the office, the subject of Adam temporarily forgotten. He turned attention back to the phone and the voice that answered on the other end.

"Zaf, I need you to have a conversation with a Gordon Hopkins."

No one threatened his officer, his analyst, his Ruth. His tongue rolled back, caressing the words. His Ruth.

Another secret. The walls smiled.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16 – A Man Who Doesn't Exist

The rain poured down as oblivious to the man who stood beneath it as the man was to the rain. Pedestrians jostled around Harry as he remained rooted to the spot. The hiss of breaks filled the air as the bus it lumbered away, melting back into the anonymity of the traffic. The yellow-tinged windows glowed in the night, passengers silhouetted against the glass. Squinting, he could barely make out her dark head bent low over a book, though he couldn't say for certain. She may have paused for a moment to look out the side window, but not back. She would never look back at him. He closed his eyes, the underlying truth of their encounter seeping into his pores along with the rain. He missed her; the sound of her voice, her wry humour, the cloud of unique scents that moved with her. Had she missed him? He suspected as much. The soft smile of pleasure the crossed her face as she realised who it was that sat behind her. Removed from the restrictions of the Grid, the balance of power no longer solely in his hands, they had momentarily stood on the same plateau. No longer her boss, his mortal hands had met her nervous fingers. Over the years, files and folders had passed between them, but in the warm cocoon of the bus the simple exchange of plastic usb stick had taken on a far deeper meaning. Her fingers had lingered on his, hinting of expectation, a subtle proffering of opportunity, once again, should he care to claim it. He relished it, the illicit thrill of their clandestine meeting. He turned it over, weighed what they could do under their cloak of anonymity, but ultimately she was not the objective. He needed to stay focused on his primary goal - unravel the story behind Khurvin and get reinstated. Every day that he was away from the Section left it vulnerable to political machinations. His blood boiled at the thought of Juliet commanding his people. He had asked Ruth to look after Adam knowing that she was his surrogate, the only one strong enough to care for his Section Chief's fragile psyche. The words were born from a sense of duty; the operation was paramount, personal preferences relegated to the background. A small voice taunted him with the sting of cowardice. It was unsettling; he had never hesitated to act on his inclinations. In days past, he would have grabbed her hand and dragged her off the bus, pulling her into his world of subterfuge and shadow. But he had deferred to the voice of reason, ignoring the temptation. Any impetuous act would blow his cover, it could lead to chaos, the loss of a brilliant analyst, the rupture of the section, possible pressure from outside if a relationship was discovered. Too great a risk.

The rain spattered against his face, waking him from the thoughts that swirled in his head. He quickly looked about the street, assessing the sea of umbrellas that surrounded him. He turned up the collar of his coat, cursing that he had not brought an umbrella for himself. The cold water revived him galvanising him to his mission. Feeling the hard plastic of the thumb drive in his pocket, he turned back into the crowd, one man among many, and faded into the night.

.

The button clicked softly beneath his fingers as Harry switched off his desk lamp. He stood for a moment in the darkness, inhaling a satisfied breath of triumph. It was good to be home. He patted his pockets, thinking that he was leaving something behind. As he stretched his arm, he realised the freedom of movement was afforded by the lack of a suit. All he wore was an old cotton shirt and a light trench coat. He could count on one hand the number of times he had shown up to the Grid out of a suit. It was disconcerting, yet strangely liberating. HIs lack of uniform reminded him that he had not yet been officially reinstated, that he was still off the clock, a rogue operative. A familiar sensation stirred within him, the sharp tang of metal crossing his palette. Adrenaline. Locked behind a desk, he had all but forgotten the thrill of avoiding detection, the excitement of flying below the radar. He wanted to hold onto it, to feel young and alive. Why was he in such a hurry to return to his former self? What if for the rest of the evening he was to abjure the crown of Section Head, and remain an ordinary man? Feel the adrenaline, take one last risk?

A sidelong glance from the slit of his eye told him that she was still at her station.

Ask her, a voice whispered, calling to him from the corner of his office. It had crept in unnoticed along with the darkness. Reason, it would seem, was off the clock, packed away in the pocket of his suit. He tapped a finger on his thigh. She had said she would take the last bus home. Ask her, coward. With a long breath, he dispelled his more nefarious thoughts. He would offer her a ride as a courtesy, a gentlemanly gesture, a thank you for a job well done. He could stay in control, no harm in a car ride. He would take one last hit, and walk away. She wasn't an addiction, only a morsel that would feed his hungry ego, sustain him until he found other sustenance.

His feet moved without conscious thought, drawn to the halo of light that surrounded her desk. Oh, how his heart had swelled to see her sitting at her station at the moment of his return. She was where she belonged and everything right with the world. His heart expanded once again to see that she had remained there, waiting for him. Or at least, he suspected as much. She did not look up when he stopped at the edge of her desk.

"What time is the last bus?"

She sat up with a start. "Oh shit," she swore softly. She hastily glanced at her phone. "Oh no."

Her fingers flew over papers as she hurriedly arranged them, hastily sliding documents back into folders.

"I'll give you a lift."

"If I hurry I can just make it."

"Having experienced firsthand the pleasures of our transit system, it would be morally reprehensible if I did not to give you a ride."

"Really, it's no problem-"

"Ruth." His voice cut through her resistance. "Stubbornness will not keep you dry."

"Alright," she nodded. "Thank you."

Movements slowing down, she straightened up her desk, papers finding folders in systems known only to her. Had she missed her bus on purpose? The voice in his head told him yes.

They sat in the not quite companionable silence of his car. It was a silence woven of unspoken thoughts and questions, breathing, taking on a mass of its own. It sat between them, daring them to speak. The further they drove away from Thames House, the more the silence demanded that they fill with the personal; any talk of work would an abdication of the ground so recently won. Even though they had just come from the Grid, there was a feeling of limbo that surrounded them, as if they had reached a no man's land. She shuddered, pulling her coat tighter, and he reached for the buttons on the dashboard.

"Are you cold?"

"No, I'm fine."

A shiver ran through him, not from cold, but from the memory of their late night encounter. Had she felt the same tremor? He ran through a list of subjects in his mind, searching for a topic that would rekindle the atmosphere they had experienced on the bus if only for the few minutes it took to drive her home.

"What were you reading?"

"Hmm?" she asked, his question rousing her from her thoughts.

"The other night, on the bus."

He could sense her looking at him. Keeping his eye on the road, he guided the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, rounding the corner to merge onto a busier street.

"You forgot to signal," she pointed out.

He gave her a look from under his lids. "I like to keep them guessing."

Suppressing a smile, she nestled back in her seat.

"It was Jane Austen."

"I never pegged you for an Austen fan."

"Adam leant it to me."

"Adam?" He couldn't keep the note of surprise out of his voice.

"He said Austen noticed details - perhaps that's why he thought of me."

Indeed, if there was anyone who noticed details it was Ruth.

The traffic slowed to a crawl. Blue and red lights flashed in the distance. An accident. They rolled to a stop. The silence between them having been previously broken now returned, coalescing into a different form of matter. The rain tapped on the roof, the hypnotic drone of the windshield wiper giving an intermittent squeak. A fine fog grew over the inside of the windows the heat of their combined breaths working in contrast to the coolness of the outside world. Harry fiddled with the ventilation in an attempt to clear the windows.

"Bit hot in here now."

"It was cool when I started out this morning."

Aware of the confines of the car, she carefully unwound her scarf. Oblivious to Harry's covert gaze, she slowly slipped the wool free from the collar of her coat, pulling it over the outline of her breast, letting it slide through her fingers and down into her lap. His throat constricted. There had been a club in Cologne that he had frequented, a rendezvous where he had kept one eye on informants and the other on long-legged dancers sliding along poles. Over time, he had developed an immunity to the more exotic displays, the bar to attract his attention having been raised immeasurably, but somehow this woman's simple act of removing her scarf had done more to entice him than any dance. His eyes slid over her body, intrigued by the mystery of what lay hidden beneath the fabric of her coat, her blouse, the heat of her skin, he wanted to unwrap it all. She cleared her throat and his eyes swung back up to her face as she rearranged the collar of her coat. A sliver of skin near her collarbone was exposed, the light from a street lamp catching the charms of her necklace. He found it hard to swallow. His foot slipped off the brake and the car lurched forward. He quickly came to his senses and slammed on the brake.

"Oh," she inhaled with alarm, her head snapping back.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Not paying attention."

She gave him a small smile of understanding.

Returning his attention to the road, he kept his focus on the glowing red taillights in front of him, blurred by the misting rain, watching him. Where was his discipline when all she had to do was remove an accessory for him to lose concentration? Taking a deep breath, he sat up straight in his seat. It was to be expected, he had let relationships outside the Service lapse, neglected to ensure that he had a steam valve for release. Personal urges must be kept hidden lest they undermine his authority. Leaders don't have feelings. He needed to find an acceptable outlet for this infatuation. For that's what it was, nothing more than the attraction that grew between two people who spent most of their waking hours together. The voice in his head laughed, slipping a nail under his denial, peeling back his reserve, showing him the layers of attraction that existed. A low-level hunger gnawed at him. A few minutes alone in her company would not be enough. The hunger would claw at him until he satisfied it. Not with her, he chastised himself, with someone else. Too late, he had breathed life into the thought. He closed his eyes. Idiot. He struggled to bring his thought back to the mundane.

"Which one was it?" he asked, looking for cover in the banality of the conversation.

"Which what?" she asked.

"Which Austen were you reading?"

"Persuasion. I suppose if I had to read one again, that would be the one I'd choose."

"I've never read it."

"What ones have you read?"

A smile crossed his face, finding it humorous that she could conceive of him reading novels full of manners and mores. But then again, his Section Chief had a penchant for the author.

"Haven't read any Austen. Not part of my wheelhouse as they would say

"Yes, I guess Austen wouldn't be high up on the readings for philosophy or economics."

"I don't recall mentioning that I studied those subjects."

"I must have heard it somewhere," she murmured, looking out the window.

His file; he had forgotten that she had invaded his past during the time that Catherine had crossed their radar. And having gone in once, had she returned to find out more? The idea simultaneously amused and alarmed him. What else had she gleaned from documents yellowed and forgotten? It was her speciality to read between the lines, draw inferences. What assumptions had she made about him?

"Apparently, Churchill read Austen," she continued.

"Are you trying to lure me into reading regency romance by dangling Winnie in front of me?"

"I'd say her books are a bit more than that."

"But they are frothy."

"One could say Mozart is frothy."

"True."

"But he's not, is he?" she challenged.

He conceded to her point by remaining silent. His hands fell down to the bottom of the steering wheel, thumbs idly playing with the leather, lulled by the cello-like quality of her voice as she continued the conversation.

"I think I read somewhere that Churchill appreciated Austen's characters for their quiet lives of contained passion."

Fingers stilling, he turned to her, her last words trapped in the unmoving air of the heated car. She was studying his hands, one eyebrow slightly raised. His chest moved with the uptick of his heart. Her fingers twisted around the fringe of her scarf, weaving between the threads. His fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, beset by the urge to entwine them with hers. The wipers moved, counting off the seconds. He counted with them, willing the urge to pass. He looked back out the windshield.

"And were they contained?"

"Who?" she asked.

"The characters in Persuasion."

She wrapped a thread around her finger, the skin growing white as the material dug into her flesh.

"Perhaps by the strictures of society, or by those around them. They were separated for many years but when they met again, after some time they gained the confidence to act on their own desires."

Jesus. He wanted to pull over the car right that second and act on his desires. He gripped the steering wheel, imagining the heat of their lust steaming up the windows. Was he misreading her? No, he couldn't be. They had been inching up to each other for so long it was only inevitable that one day they would find themselves on top of one another. Why not see how far he could go with her? Take her to bed and have done with it, slake their combined lust and move on. Surely, once fed the need would dissipate as it had done in the past.

She remained intently focused on her scarf, slender wrists peeking out from the cuff of her coat sleeve. A network of blue veins moved over the tendons. Thoughts tumbled over each other. Take her hand; kiss it, lips pressing against the tender flesh near her pulse.

The blast of a car horn sounded behind them. She jumped, he cursed. He faced forward, taking a moment to bring his heartbeat under control as it beat in double time from the sound of the horn and the thoughts in his head. Foot pressing on the gas, he inched forward. They were waved passed the accident and eventually broke free of the traffic. Silence breathed down the back of his neck.

"Take the next left," she told him.

"I know where you live. I have been there a few times."

"That's right, you have."

He couldn't quite decipher her tone; innocent observation or droll rebuttal. Always a hidden layer with her; never quite as innocent or pure as he assumed.

She looked out the window, the subject of Jane Austen having evaporated through the vents as the temperature in the car cooled. The rain eased up and he shut off the wipers. A familiar row of houses came into view, and his arms tensed as they drove closer to her place. He could offer to walk her to the door but that would be rather presumptuous – this wasn't a date. He could suggest it as a means to ensure there were no intruders. He would have to investigate her ground floor and of course, to be on the safe side, he would have to look upstairs. She might offer him a scotch and he would….

"Oh, you just passed it."

He pumped the brakes. "Sorry."

"It's fine, you can let me off here."

Shifting the car into reverse, he backed up to a spot in front of her house. He let the engine idle, debating whether or not to turn it off. She pulled her bag up from by her feet, bunching it together with her scarf. She turned to him the neckline of her top twisting slightly, exposing a hint of cleavage. The tip of her tongue flicked out nervously over her lips. He met her eyes. Large, blue, inviting. It was there, he could take it, he was certain she wouldn't refuse him and yet there was a small hint of reticence, a whisper, enough to remind him of his misgivings. It was wonderful, this intoxication of standing on the cliff, he only needed to reach out and take her hand and they would jump. It wasn't so much the fall that scared him, but the landing. That once they hit the ground it would shatter. Accusations, recriminations, outside interference. He could ignore reason but not duty. If he were to pursue something with her could he still perform his duty? If need be could he ever sacrifice her for the good of the nation?

She shifted in her seat, eyes falling away from him as if sensing his thoughts. Her eyes returned to his face, questioning. If he turned away this opportunity would there ever be another? He looked at her, willing her to understand the burden that he carried. He swallowed hard.

"Goodnight, Ruth."

A soft inhale and then a slight nod to her head.

"Thank you for the lift."

Opening the door, she left him without any further word. He watched as she walked up to her door and slipped inside her house. The car remained in neutral, the engine waiting. The light in her front room turned on and he watched as she moved about. Eventually, it went dim, along with the light in the hall. Still, he did not leave.

Go in. It's not too late.

After a minute, a light appeared in an upper window. Her bedroom. He inhaled sharply. A shadow came to the window and stood, looking out onto the street. His heart thudded in his chest; she must know that he was still there. Voyeur, stalker, what had he become? He couldn't take his eyes from the window, air disappearing from his lungs. She raised a hand and slowly drew the curtain closed. His breath returned, harsh in his throat. His hand rose to the ignition, fingers resting on the key. Turn it off, take the risk. He needed to drive away. He needed… he needed… Shit. He rifled through his trench coat pocket and pulled out his phone. He scrolled through the contacts looking for Monica, Karen, any woman that would take him to her bed. No questions, no expectations just a quick fuck. Numbers swam before his eyes until one came into focus. Ruth's. God help him. His thumb hovered over the button, a simple tap and his voice would be in her ear, then in her house, in her. What was he thinking? He clenched the phone in his hand, squeezing the chrome and plastic searching for strength. It would all fall apart. With a huff of frustration, he turned off the phone and tossed it into the passenger seat. Emptiness loomed before him. He was tired of it, but there was no other way. It was the life he had chosen.

He moved the gearshift into drive.

Coward.

The voice in his head would be the death of him. And if that didn't lead to his downfall, she surely would.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17 – Spy Lovers Avoiding the Spies

It was three in the morning but the comfort of a warm bed was all but a distant memory to Harry. The air in his office was close and heavy, stale from lack of circulation. It had been hours since he had stepped outside the sanctuary of his glassed enclosure, echoes of the Eerie exercise dancing in his head, with one key difference. This time he could not feign illness and recuse himself from the harsher decisions. This time, he had to make the hard decision.

Suppressing a sigh of resignation, he looked up at the woman standing in front of him and motioned to a chair on the other side of his desk.

"Have a seat."

"I prefer to stand."

There was no mistaking the edge to Ruth's voice. Harry cast a subtle eye to his door and for a moment doubted the wisdom of dismissing his Section Chief, wondering if he should recall Adam to act as a buffer. No, the conversation that was about to unfold would be hard enough without third-party intervention. Besides, a triumvirate would garner suspicion; a pairing of spooks was less likely to attract attention.

"If there was any other way, I wouldn't ask you to do this."

"Wouldn't you?" she countered, words clipped, eyes hard and accusing.

She knew him. When it came to the success of an operation nothing was sacred. For that was what the day had evolved into, a full-fledged op. Angela Wells holding them prisoner with her handbag full of plastic explosives. In an effort to buy time, they had played along with her fantasy. Adam had tasked Zaf with the job of fabricating MI5 involvement in Diana's death, but it was only a distraction, even though admittedly the officer had come eerily close to the scenario envisioned by the Committee. No, they needed to defeat Angela with her own weapon. He had spent hours combing through her files, searching for the pebble that would take down the giant. The former agent would see right through him, discern any ruse that he might use, they were two old war horses, intimately acquainted with the machinations of deception. He was close to admitting defeat when he had stumbled across a nugget of information. That was the problem with intimate acquaintances in the Service; a shared history always left one open to vulnerabilities. Angela had used Ruth; he had no choice but to do the same.

Distracted by his calculating thoughts, he flexed his fingers possessively over the manila folder on his desk. Ruth's eyes fell down to the file, her mouth drawing into a hard line. Her name was writ large in capital letters while a box listed the contents - family history and psychological profile. All her wounds neatly documented and arranged in chronological order. In another age, he had skimmed through the file, barely noting the contents doubting that he would ever need them, certain that she would be gone in a matter of weeks. In the intervening years, he had learned not to underestimate her resolve. His mind returned to that first day. She had come to him, electric with suppressed energy, fresh and naïve, full of unfaltering loyalty to her country. How she had changed in ways both delicate and bold - fully initiated in the unseemly ways of the Service. He had seen it that streak of determination that lay hidden under flowery tops and charmed necklaces. He had witnessed the lengths that she would go to in protecting the team, claws drawn when backed against a wall. She was fully capable of pushing her boundaries, there was only one more to break. It all lay beneath her skin, he only had to reach in and pull it out.

"I'll help you formulate a scenario."

"No."

Her shoulders tensed, arms growing tighter around the file that she held to her chest, holding like a shield. His eyes bore through her flimsy defence, seeing right into her. In a battle of wills, he would win. He looked into her face daring her to refuse him.

"I can't do it."

"Yes, you can. Your brother is her pressure point."

"Step-brother," she corrected him tersely. She inhaled a shaky breath. "He only died last year."

The emotion in her voice was a warning. He was going to lose her. He rose from his chair and with two quick steps, rounded his desk to the side where she stood. It was an act born from years of cultivating assets; show them a supportive gesture, a sign that you care, that you are on their side. She looked at him with suspicious eyes, second-guessing any genuine concern on his part. He inhaled deeply. She knew his every move.

"She would tear me apart, Harry. She plays with people. She played with me just as she is doing with Jo right now. The youngest, the weakest-"

"The prettiest?" he added as thoughts of a younger Ruth surfaced. He pictured her on the brink of eighteen, fresh to the world. Younger than Angela. Significantly younger than him. Did that fact annoy Angela as much as it troubled him?

Ruth bit her lip looking out in the direction of the briefing room.

"Peter would always come to my defence; it would drive her crazy."

"Exactly, you're the thorn in her side."

"There's no way I could get to her. You said it yourself, she mastered in psychological manipulation."

"So we get her emotionally."

"You're assuming she has any emotion. After so many years of manipulating people, she's probably forgotten how to truly feel."

Her eyes held his, the double edge of her observation pricking him, the insinuation that he too was incapable of feeling. It had been a while since he had been wounded by her subtle knife. He kept his face impassive, wanting to refute her idea of him, but keeping his response contained. The downside of his plan became glaringly apparent. By sacrificing her up to Angela, he ran the risk of dismantling the fragile little connections they had woven between them, throwing away the chance that anything stronger could form. It could very well be the last act that pushed her away. It was exactly the type of scenario that he had anticipated that night when he had sat outside her house. There was a bomb, time was running out. He couldn't stop to consider her feelings, he could only use them.

"Surely, Angela had feelings for your brother."

A huff of air escaped her lips as if she had been punched in the gut. "You want me to use Peter's suicide?"

"No." He crossed his arms and leaned back against the desk. "Blackpool."

"Oh god." She froze, the only movement her eyes as they returned to the file on the desk. "Is that in there?"

"Only that the two of you ran away. No details as to exactly what happened."

"Nothing happened."

She looked straight at him, the steel in her spine coming through her voice. It was magnificent. He would use it. All he had to do was mine that resolve and turn it against Angela.

"He was older than you."

"Only by a few years."

"He was out of university, already thinking of the joining the Service …"

"I was young. I wanted to get out from under my-"

"Yes. There was some," he searched for a word, "Discord."

"I was fighting with my mother, I was a teenager. It was the anniversary-"

She cut herself off pulling back before she exposed too much of herself, but Harry already knew, he had read the file. It had been the anniversary of her father's death.

"Peter offered an escape from all that, didn't he?"

"It was only supposed to be for the day."

"There was an incident at a hotel."

"We were drunk." Her eye darted over to the decanter of scotch sitting on the credenza but returned quickly to a spot on his shirt. "He drank a lot."

"Hmm." The low hum came from the back of his throat. He shared a vice with her brother. What else did they have in common? "There's something compelling about people who flout the rules, isn't there?" Shifting slightly off the desk, he inclined his head to her, speaking with a confidential whisper. "Danger is very attractive."

She bowed her head, a strand of hair falling limply around her face. A thin sheen of perspiration glistened on her forehead, the same film that covered them all had after hours on the humid Grid. In the unmoving air of his office, he could detect her scent, her perfume and unguents having worn away leaving only the bare essence of her skin, warm and earthy. It was there, the feral cat, he would coax it out.

"You must have had feelings for him. Perhaps a bit of a crush?"

"I cared for him."

Her shoulders slumped and she leaned her hip against the desk for support. Her movement brought her closer to him. His concentration faltered, his nostrils filling with her. It came to him, unbidden, the low-level hunger that lurked beneath the surface. His throat constricted with the effort to swallow it down. He could not have her, but he could feed on her in other ways. He was overcome by the need for her to capitulate to his demands. If he could convince her to lay bare her feelings, and stand naked with only the shreds of truth, then he could ask her to do anything. Tilting his head he lowered his voice another notch.

"And you – a beautiful young woman. He must have had feelings for you."

She kept her eyes lowered.

"He loved you, didn't he?"

Her breath became ragged, a tinge of red colouring her cheeks.

"Your relationship was far more intimate than anyone ever knew."

She looked up at him, eyes wide.

"He was in love with you." His voice was no more than air. "He was always in love with you."

Blinking, she stood up and took a step away. His hand rose, fingers wrapping around her upper arm, halting her retreat.

"Don't," he commanded.

"What?" she whispered.

"Flinch."

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of arm, his thumb pushing against the trace of muscle near her bicep, pulling her back into the circle of subterfuge he had created. The story was almost complete; she only needed to fill in the ending. She looked at him a hint of revulsion in her eyes and he knew that he had crossed a line, hers and his. He had exploited her feelings and taken the risk of mixing his own into the scenario. A telltale muscle moved at her throat and her lips parted slightly, her voice a whisper.

"You want me to tell her that I slept with Peter."

He smiled at her, pleased that she had arrived at the same devious conclusion as he.

"There is no heartbreak more painful than discovering that the person you have loved for so long never really loved you."

A myriad of emotions flitted across her face, evaporating before he could not decipher them all. His grip relaxed on her arm, the smallness of her stature sinking in. There was still so much youth about her, a lingering innocence; he was asking her to leave it all behind. Even so, the realisation was no deterrent. He was so close to pushing her over the edge, breaking her, he couldn't stop now. He reasserted his grip on her arm, the pressure pulling her a fraction closer.

"This is your chance to get back at her. Take it."

Cracking, shattering, her breath increase, giving a slight tremble to her lower lip. Don't cry, he silently commanded, use it. Her eyes flitted up to him, and he zeroed in with one last gambit.

"You can do this." He hissed, calculating that the intensity of his tone would goad her to action. "I know you can."

The muscles in her arm tensed under his fingers, the softness of her mouth evaporated, and her eyes turned a metallic blue. He willed her to be brave, to find within her the strength to confront the mad woman that held them hostage. As he looked into her eyes, he could see the walls erecting, almost hear the sounds of gates slamming closed; against Angela, against him. What had he done? He pushed the question away and narrowed his eyes at her, waiting for an answer.

She swallowed, took a deep breath, and then nodded.

His hand dropped away from her arm and they stood for a moment, transfixed, trying to absorb what had transpired. She broke away first, raising a shaky hand to an errant strand of hair and tucking it behind her ear. He moved around to the other side of the desk, fingers gravitating to her file.

"When you go to her, arm yourself with details. If you put in a remembrance, something personal, it will make it all ring true."

It was a concession masked in coded language, should she care to unravel it. In dismantling her he had given up pieces of himself.

She left as she always did, exiting without words. He sat down heavily in his chair, elbows on the desk as his hands supported his head. Alone in the silence, he could hear the tick of his office. Time was running out. He had done the right thing. It was far better that their relationship descended into rubble than the building.

.

Bone weary, Harry rested his head against the concrete wall, the back of the waiting room chair digging into his shoulder blade. He could fall asleep in such luxury. A garbled voice came over the hospital speakers announcing a code blue. Harry opened one eye, wondering if he should be concerned, praying that it wasn't regarding his officer. Zaf sat beside him, the young man's chin drooping onto his chest. He was a good officer, a fine young man. No matter how horrendous the past twenty-four hours had been they had certainly served to bind the team. He vowed to keep them together. Only a few short months ago, he had mulled over the idea of finding a replacement for Adam. His fingers formed into a fist. He would not lose his Section Chief. He would not give him up to a bullet from Angela Welles.

Even though half closed eyes and the clatter of hospital business, he could detect the sound of familiar footsteps. He closed his eyes, daring to hope that she had come to see him.

"How is he?"

Opening his eyes, he found Ruth standing before him, tired, dishevelled, pale under the fluorescent lights.

"They've got him in surgery."

Zaf stirred, stretching out his legs, blinking as he acknowledged Ruth's arrival. He motioned to her hands.

"What's that?"

"Sandwiches."

Harry looked at the packets with grave suspicion.

"They're from the canteen so they can't be that bad." She held them out.

Ravenous from hours without food, Zaf didn't need to be told twice. He eagerly took one. "I'll risk it. We're already in a hospital."

"I didn't know what was happening…. what you needed…" she stammered, eyes landing on Harry and then taking off again.

"I could use a coffee," Zaf piped up.

Harry gave a slow turn to the young man, controlling the urge to reprimand him. Ruth was not his errand girl. "If you're getting a coffee get me one too."

Zaf stopped mid-bite and gave Harry a sidelong glance, fully understanding the line that he had crossed. "Right then." He hefted his body off the chair and slowly walked down the hall.

Ruth gave a slight rock on her heels and looked down the hall after Zaf. Harry straightened up in his seat and pulled his jacket closer around him, leaving a deferential amount of space between him and the adjacent chair. The invitation was clear. Ruth looked at the seat and swayed with hesitation. He could guess at the debate that warred within her. They had not spoken since their encounter in the corridor. He had dismissed her pain in the name of a job well done. But more unnervingly, he had tasted desire. It had sat on his tongue, filling his mouth and it had been delicious. And he could have taken more, he had sensed it in her. He had not given in. He asserted his mastery, claimed her as his and anointed her a true spook. He knew the lie she had told, he owned her. He could hardly blame her if she wanted to keep her distance.

Relenting, she sat down beside him, keeping her body stiff, taking great care not to touch him. A tiny smile of relief crept over his lips, the tension that he held in every muscle dissipated as he felt the warmth of her proximity. She handed him a sandwich and he took it in grateful silence. Her tired fingers fumbled with the wrapping of her package, stilling when she opened it and saw the contents. She let it rest in her lap looking at it dejectedly.

"Egg salad," she sighed.

Harry turned to the sandwich in his hand and opened it. Ham and cheese. Without pausing, he held it out to her, the back of his hand touching hers, nudging her to accept it.

"It's okay," she told him.

"No, you take it."

It was a peace offering, a sign of atonement. It was pittance considering what he had asked of her. His eyes traced her profile as she looked down at the offering. Forgive me, Ruth. The words remained unspoken; he could only open up his hand, leaving the mound of his palm exposed. Slowly, she inhaled a deep breath. A moment went by, then two. He was about to withdraw the offer when her hand abruptly moved and she reached for his sandwich. Their fingers touched during the exchange, his lingering a little longer than was strictly necessary, communicating silently. Reluctantly, he drew his hand away. They sat back and simultaneously bit into their sandwiches, ignoring the stale bread and day old fillings. Harry contemplated the wall across from him, a layer of green paint worn and chipped. How long did it take to tear down a wall?

He searched for an innocuous subject.

"How's Malcolm holding up?"

"Still a bit shaky." She brushed a crumb from her fingertips. "He said something curious to me."

"Do I want to know?"

"He said that bravery was something that he dreaded."

Harry chewed thoughtfully, mulling over her words. "I suppose it creates the expectation that you will do it again."

She looked down at her sandwich and nodded, knowing that she now wore that mantle, the bar of her capabilities risen exponentially.

"She played us, Harry."

"No, she played me. She was one step ahead. She knew that I would follow the code and let her go."

"It was all for nothing." Her fingers picked listlessly at the plastic wrap, hunger forgotten.

"No, it wasn't. You mustn't think that."

"I corrupted his memory." Her eyes rose to the ceiling. "It feels absolutely horrible."

Instinctively, his hand reached out but he stopped it in mid-gesture. "Ruth," he called to her softly, bringing her attention back to him. "Remember what I told you. Hold on to that one part inside of you that no one can touch."

For the first time, she turned to him, meeting his eyes, searching his face. "Do you still have that in you, Harry? That one place?"

Was it possible that she still believed in his humanity? That she had not entirely given up on him? He looked back at her, a latch unlocking, a wave of emotion flowing through his chest, his throat constricting in an effort to block it from advancing any further. He was tired of holding back, tired of being strong. Oh, how he longed to lose control. His breath grew thick in his lungs, his nostrils flared with the effort to contain himself. He could tell her, he could trust her.

"I do," he whispered.

Someday he would reveal it to her, but not today.

Reading him, sensing his thoughts, her lips moved in a soft half-smile, and she nodded. She did not press him, accepting the little that he offered to her, knowing that the small admission had been dear. He sat back in his chair a weight rising from his chest. She had returned to him. The feeling of relief was undercut by a sense of foreboding. There may come a day when she would not. He would not let that happen. Angela Welles had been a harbinger; a sign of things to come - alone and bitter, seeking revenge while clutching at the memory of love. He did not want to be that man. He would not put the woman that sat beside him in jeopardy, he would not ask her again to betray her sensibilities. She had proven her loyalty to him many times over, it was his duty to protect her.

Shifting in her chair, she sat back with him, her shoulder brushing against his.

"I'm so tired," she sighed.

"Me too."

He lost himself in the image of her leaning her head against him, closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep. Tomorrow he would be a better man. His gaze returned to the wall across from him. He squinted. A patch of concrete lay exposed, a chunk missing from the surface. He could in time break down her wall. The question was could he dismantle his in return?

"I'm curious," he spoke, breaking the silence. "Why does one need an MD reader in their house?"

"Secrets." She kept her gaze fixed on the wall, nonchalantly eating her sandwich as if it were the most obvious answer. "How else would I find out things you want to keep hidden from me?"

He smiled to himself. Born spook. And all his.


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N - This story may be the end of me. It seemed like such a simple idea in the beginning. Thank you for continuing to read. Reviews are always welcome._

 _._

Chapter 18 - Satisfaction, In Our Own Time

.

The night air cut through Harry's coat like a knife, the comfort of Adam's flat immediately forgotten. Fingers of frost traced the ground, the cold pavement seeping through the soles of his shoes. Rocking slightly on his heels, he discreetly observed the three remaining members of his dwindling team. They stood in silence, frozen with indecision, the events of the last twenty-four hours leaving them stunned. He flexed his leather clad fingers, balling his hand into a fist as if that simple act could hold the team together, contain the crisis, resurrect Colin from his horrific fate. How he despised men like Collingwood, acting without impunity, disregarding whoever stood in his path. Adam had instinctively understood why the cretins from Six had gone after Colin, ostensibly the weakest member of the team. It was all part of the game and Harry knew that strategy all too well. He would not be goaded into making a mistake, no matter how satisfying the taste of immediate revenge might be. Patience was a bountiful goddess; the reward would be greater with time. The long game was the only one worth playing. Malcolm knew that; he had chalked up enough experience on that score over the years, but even the steadiest of hands shake when the knife cuts close. It was only natural that Malcolm would lash out. Harry had been more than willing to let Adam deal with Malcolm's anger, but the techie's words had hit a nerve. Harry had berated Tom for lesser infractions, and the need to assert his authority over the situation had risen like a reflex. It was only the soft pressure of a certain knee against his that had served to restrain him. With a sidelong glance, her eyes had found his, no words needed. And thus, he had chosen to let Malcolm's insult go unchallenged. He had congratulated himself having finally mastered his temper after so many years, but in the end, he knew it was not all his doing.

A car sped down the deserted street, wheels screeching as it rounded the corner, the noise serving to rouse the spooks from their stupor. It was risky enough for them to leave the building all at once, a danger compounded the longer they stood on the street.

Zaf cleared his throat. "I guess that's it for the night." His hands burrowed further into his coat pocket, his body still tense from the heightened atmosphere of Adam's flat.

"It appears so," Malcolm replied, his tone rivalling the frost of the air. He stared straight ahead, anger manifesting in his rigid posture, not entirely convinced that the idea of delayed action would serve as justice for Colin.

Harry inhaled, the air circling in his nostrils, the coldness piercing his thoughts, words of reprimand ready on his tongue. He hesitated. There was a presence at his shoulder, hovering, calling to his better angels. He remained silent. Letting out a long slow breath, he held out his hand.

"Goodnight, Malcolm."

Malcolm looked down at the proffered hand, the corner of his lip curled slightly with disdain. Harry inhaled an irritated breath. The presence at his shoulder stirred. Quelling the urge to pull away, Harry moved his hand closer to Malcolm's reach. He met the man's eyes, years of combined loss and grief passing between them, veterans, comrades, the last ones standing. The stiffness of Malcolm's shoulders dissipated, and he dropped his eyes. Harry took it as a sign and reached out, taking Malcolm's grip in his own, bringing up his free hand up to grasp the man's shoulder. He gave it a firm squeeze. Too long of the battle, they needed no words, the simple gesture was enough to re-establish their bond.

Harry nodded to Zaf and without any further discussion, the group of spooks peeled away. Zaf in one direction and Malcolm in another, each man disappearing into the darkness. Harry turned in the direction of his car, and by unspoken agreement, Ruth fell into step beside him. She had arrived with him, she would leave with him. Over the past few weeks during Adam's recuperation, a wordless understanding had arisen between them. The empty seat beside him at the briefing table was reserved for her, she arrived in his office before he knew he needed her, she had become his sounding board in the absence of his Section Chief. In turn, he had noticed members of the team deferring to her knowledge, and she had taken to wearing the mantle with a greater maturity, her once excitable manner slowly subsiding. It was with a certain self-satisfied pride that he glanced at her – taking all the credit for her transformation. She quickened her pace to keep up with him, her breath crystallizing into tiny clouds and then just as quickly disappearing. His hand rose possessively to the small of her back, the layers of fabric between them doing little to impede his claim on her. Token, talisman, charm - she was all these. As long as she accompanied him, he could face anything. He held the passenger door open and glanced around the street, calculating what crevices might conceal Collingwood's vermin. As she entered the car, he fleetingly questioned the wisdom of being seen with her, that any overt association between them could be used by Collingwood as leverage over him. Closing the door, he dismissed the thought; she would be safer in his sight.

Crossing to the driver's side, he took his seat and started the car. He immediately turned on the heat, concerned for her comfort. The white glare of his headlights cut through the darkness of the deserted street. He gave a brief glance into the rear-view mirror and assessed that they were not being followed, but turned without signalling none the less, not wanting to telegraph his intentions. He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel and let the warmth of the car thaw his tired bones. It was a warmth not solely brought about by the dashboard heater. It was a rare occurrence that they could share a moment alone outside the Grid. The warmth of her proximity flowed over him, penetrating his pores, the hunger that usually stalked him, lying dormant, a different need calling to him. His pride still pricked at Malcolm's words, the sting amplified by the fact that she had heard them. He tried to sound casual, even amused.

"Do you think I'm a pompous old fool?"

Ruth shifted in her seat and cleared her throat as if she had been waiting for the question. "Well, you're not a fool, Harry."

He looked at her from the corner of his eye, duly noting that she had not refuted the pompous or the old part of the question. Although she kept her focus on the road ahead, the corner of her mouth turned up with an impish tweak. She was teasing him. It was ridiculous to be sensitive to the words of a man in pain, but it was a sore spot, especially where she was concerned. With a slight grimace, he silently conceded that this woman was not going to assuage his ego. He would have to make do with her subtle humour and the occasional companionable ribbing. It was not such a bad bargain, she had managed to lead him through the bleakness of many a grinding day. He should be content with her friendship, forgo the idea of an all-consuming passion. There was nothing wrong with the status quo; after all, wasn't that what he was supposed to be protecting? At least he had not drawn Adam's straw; losing a wife, raising a child alone, having to depend on someone else...

"That nanny you hired seemed a bit on the young side."

"She came highly recommended."

"Hmm," he replied cryptically.

"Did you want to see her references?"

It was easy for him to suppress the smile but not the roguish lift to his brow. He could sense her look of disapproval.

"On second thought, you had better just take my word."

"If only we could find someone for Malcolm." he mused aloud, his attention partly directed at easing into the traffic at a busy intersection.

"I'll help him with the service for Colin," she offered, looking out the window, absently playing with the fringe of her scarf.

Of course, she would. She had found a nanny for Adam, would mend Malcolm, along with who knows what other hidden tasks she carried out.

"I've spoken with Colin's parents," Harry said. "They don't believe it was suicide."

"That would make it doubly hard for them."

"I had a similar incident with another young officer. She died in a rather horrific manner. Her parents refused to accept the official explanation."

"I just can't seem to get the picture out of my mind of what they did to Colin."

"Don't go down that hole," he advised.

"He was all alone. No one there to help him."

He turned to her briefly, concerned at the tremor in her voice, but quickly turned back to the road.

"We can't undo what's done, but we can look after our own."

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the leather of his gloves stretching taut over his knuckles. Her eyes fell to his hands, studying them. She had heard stories of the acts those hands had committed. Her eyes moved back up to his face.

"In time," she prompted, a cautionary note to her voice.

"Yes," he agreed, his finger relenting on the steering wheel. "In time."

He would not act in haste. The only variable in the whole scenario that he could control was himself. Collingwood, Myers, Millington - all playing with the fabric of democracy, waiting for the seams to come undone so they could stitch up the country. He had no idea what their next move might be. If he waited, they would overreach, tripping on their hubris and then he would let them taste what they had served Colin.

Familiar landmarks came into view, a small park, the shuttered stalls of a corner market. They were nearing her house. He pulled up to the kerb, the memory revisiting him of the last time he had sat in front of her house. Tonight, the longing lay asleep, replaced by the warmth of an old acquaintance, mellow like a well-aged scotch and he savoured it. He turned off the car.

"I'll see you in."

"That's alright."

"We don't know where these people may be lurking."

"We can't live in fear. How will we get anything done?

"I would feel better."

"Harry, you can't look after me twenty-four hours a day."

He could try. He wanted to.

"I can look after myself," she added tersely as she rummaged through her purse. Finding her keys, she placed them individually through spaces between her fingers. "See?" She proudly held up her fist of keys.

"What's that for?"

"Self defence. Jo taught me. Go for the eyes, she said."

His eyebrows inched up his forehead as he tried to imagine Ruth taking out a would-be assailant.

"Alright," he relented, not wanting to tread on her independence. In all likelihood, Collingwood would not make another attempt on his team so soon. "Flick the light three times to let me know that everything is fine."

She gave him a reproachful look.

"Humour me."

She nodded, conceding to his wish. "Thanks for the lift."

"Good night, Ruth."

He spoke her name softly, the word at once a closure to the evening and at the same time an evocation of a continued presence. Without thinking, he reached over and placed his hand on her knee. She did not flinch or shy away but looked down at his hand and then back up to him. Proprietary told him to take it away, pretend that it had never happened. But he didn't. He let it linger, resting on her leg with a gentle pressure. It was not meant to be flirtatious or aggressive, merely an act of reassurance, for her and for him. The outline of her leg lay beneath his palm, his fingers stretching out over the top of her knee. The same knee that had pressed against him only an hour ago, tempering his anger. Did she know the power that her touch had over him? His thumb moved along the hardness of her kneecap, his fingers curling into the softness around it. A lick of carnal craving swirled within him, accompanied by something more. Not only did he want to know the flesh that lay beneath the skirt, he wanted to know this woman, her heart, her mind, bind her to him, reach into her core and find the pieces that were missing in him.

The keys between her fingers loosened as she softly inhaled. Her eyes held his, lips slightly parted, waiting. One small kiss, one sweet kiss. He swallowed. Oh, the treasure that lay before him, he could steal it away, take advantage of fragile emotions, of pain and hurt, the loss of a friend. Or he could wait until the time was right, go deeper and find a far richer vein.

He shifted slightly, the seat belt cutting across his chest, his hand slipping from her leg. Before anything could happen, she moved her leg away and opened the door. She had made the decision for him. Leaning down, she spoke to him with a nervous breathiness.

"I'll flick the lights."

At the sound of the closing door, Harry blinked. He stared at the house, unseeing, trying to process the strange mixture of emotions that swirled within him - disappointment, relief, a faint flicker of hope. Had he moved too fast? Had his bumbling offended her? The lights in her living room window dimmed three times. The signal roused him from his thoughts and he focused on starting the car. Pride returned. He would not sit outside her house that night. But he would be patient. He would make a move when the time was right.

.

The pod doors rotated with the unfeeling precision of a mechanical clock. It made no difference who crossed the threshold as long as they had security clearance. As Harry passed through the doors, he wondered if there would ever be a time when the door would know the thoughts of men and stop them before the entered. It would make his job far easier. He surveyed the Grid, absorbing it as if he had not been on it in years. In actuality, it had been less than twenty-four hours. He had been swept up in a dystopian nightmare and left to sit helplessly in a detention centre with the threat of death looming over his head. He had left the compound, sopping wet, restless, agitated, unable to order his thoughts. Adam had told him to go home and rest, but he couldn't. He needed to return to the Grid. He needed reassurance that the world was as he had left it.

Judging from the buzz of activity on display, it would seem that world had carried on quite nicely without him - a thought both comforting and unnerving. All was well in the pubs, the clock stood at ten and three but he ... he was out of step with time. Twelve hours in a cage with only a bottle of scotch and the company of a civil liberties lawyer would do that to a man. That, and the knowledge that his life meant nothing to a man like Collingwood. He had in days past shrugged off more desperate circumstances but for some reason, his heart continued to thump erratically, his palms remained clammy, and his senses continued to function on high alert. With a deep breath, he tampered his nerves and finished his surveillance of the Grid. He came around to her desk last. She had seen him enter, waited until he found her and now sat motionless, eyes hooked on his. The noise of the Grid faded away, the stream of people around him no more than shadows on the periphery of his consciousness. His heart stilled; she remained, all was right with the world. She slowly rose from her seat, never taking her eyes off of him. He drew her in, tempering a smile, hoping that she would come to him; welcome him back as she had done with Tom when he had returned from his assignment in the army. - a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek. But she made no move towards him, instead, she stayed rooted to the spot. Even at a distance, he could see the clouds in her eyes. Something was wrong. It was foolish of him to think that she would run into his arms, weep with joy at his return. Even if she were glad to see him, she could never carry out such an overt display of affection. There was no precedent, they were merely colleagues. What sort of signal would it send to the team? He quickly dismissed his disappointment and found his mask, his face becoming stone. He was the Head of Section; he didn't need a welcome reception from his analyst. Placing one foot in front of the other, he headed to the sanctuary of his office.

As he moved, he could smell the cloud of confinement that followed him, the stale scent of spent fear. He needed to shake it off but it clung to him. Why was he so off balance? The country was back in order, and he was back at his desk. A greeting from her was of little consequence. He found solace in the habit, the ritual of pouring himself a glass of scotch. Alcohol would always be there to welcome him. He paused with the glass on his lips knowing that she was at his door. He finished off the drink and turned to her. The silence between them ticked on until she finally spoke.

"You didn't phone."

He cocked his head not understanding what she meant.

"I mean, I could understand why you didn't phone after the car bomb-"

"It was chaos that day."

"I know. I had to wade through it trying to track down where you were-"

"I went with Juliet in the ambulance."

Her face hardened, lips pressing together into a straight line. "Yes, but you didn't phone to let me-" she cut herself off and corrected her statement. "To let us know that you were safe. And you didn't do it today."

"Jesus, Ruth, we just averted a government coup." He crossed the carpet as he spoke, coming to stand beside her inside the door frame. "I can't help it if a few niceties fell through the cracks."

"Niceties?" she echoed.

His brow furrowed, recalling that he had once defended the niceties to Oliver Mace, saying that they kept them from tyranny. He shook his head, dispelling the memory, returning to his ire for his analyst and her wholly unjustified anger at him. She was supposed to be the calm one, the balm that soothed his temper. On top of that, she had no right to upbraid him for not checking in. He was her boss; he didn't owe an explanation of his whereabouts to this woman. He gave her a glare, telegraphing his thoughts. She turned sharply about, but before she could step out of his office, he found the door handle and slid the panel close, the wood hitting the casement with a thud. She froze, eyes wide staring at the closed door. He brought his head closer to hers, venting his thoughts in a hiss or rage.

"We lost a colleague, narrowly diverted two planes from crashing over London, stepped down a protest that would have ended in mass arrest and saved the prime minister's son. I'm sorry if calling you wasn't high on my list of priorities."

Her head swerved to him, his words landing with the sting of a slap. Her eyes stared at him, large and hurt. He wanted to take the words back, knowing that they were in part fueled by residual adrenaline. But he couldn't. His frustration grew, words tumbling in his mind, unable to articulate what he needed from her. She should have greeted him with open arms. He leaned in closer. Why hadn't she?

She caught her breath, her nose wrinkling up with distaste. "You smell of petrol."

"Yes," he snapped. "There was a point where death by fire seemed imminent."

Her anger dissolved, replaced by concern.

"Oh God, Harry. Are you alright?"

Her hand found his arm, fingers pressing against his sleeve. At her touch, he stopped. His anger, deprived of oxygen, was instantly snuffed out. She rubbed her hand gently on his forearm. It was exactly what he needed. Human touch, her touch. God, he needed her. The reason for her anger dawned on him. It had been a long time since anyone had cared enough about him to be angry. She swayed toward him, bodies a fraction apart, as close to an embrace as they could come.

"I wanted to send a team to get you," she whispered hoarsely. "I tried to convince Adam, but he said that stopping the coup was more important."

"He was right."

It pained him to say it, but he could not fault his Section Chief; he would have done the same. It was a sobering thought knowing that he could have been sacrificed for good of the country. For years, he had been the one in charge of that decision. The weight of the day's events hit him, and he leaned against the door, overcome by tiredness. He took a deep breath, hoping to reclaim his energy; instead, he found her scent, fresh and clean. He closed his eyes. It was like a garden in the rain. A garden ripe with temptation.

"Adam would make a good Section Head."

"He may be ready to do without you but I'm not."

He opened his eyes and studied her face, turned up to him, coloured with concern. For months, he had deliberated whether or not he could give her up if need be but he had not contemplated that she might have to do the same. A relationship between them would be unfair on so many levels. And yet who else did they have, if not each other?

"You're not rid of me yet."

"Not yet." She smiled at him gently, the light returning to her eyes.

He dipped his head closer to hers.

"In the future, I will try to remember to phone you."

"Try?" she countered.

"That's all we can do, isn't it?" He gave her a little smile. "Try."

They could try, couldn't they? With each other? The question hovered between them, the words left unspoken and therefore requiring no action. How long could he draw out this his delicious game, both of them knowing, but neither admitting, waiting? A part of him wanted to stay in this tortuous limbo with her, hold onto their fragile little secret that they kept even from themselves. If they revealed it might turn to dust and blow away. It was a balancing act on a tenuous thread; at some point, one of them would fall.

He let out a long sigh and opened the door. She hesitated, but only for a moment, and then walked away.

.

Daylight, fresh air - tonics to a weary mind. Harry paused for a moment as he stepped out of the hospital door, inhaling deeply as he pulled on his gloves. Ruth stood before him, smiling, white coat, scarf around her neck, everything as it should be. He gave her a little smile of greeting. She fell into step along with him, fitting naturally into her rightful place by his side.

"Sorry I had to tap on the window. I've been calling you."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. "Shit. The notifications off."

She gave him a reproachful look.

"Had to get a new phone from Malcolm," he said in his defence. "Says it's better but I'm still working out the kinks."

"They've got Millington in custody," she continued. "They want to know how far to go with him. He's crying foul over freedom of the press."

"Does the man's hypocrisy know no bounds?" Harry slipped the phone back into his pocket. "Yes, well, he and his paper may prove useful in the future."

They neared the end of the little laneway, shadows falling across the pavement, a cool wind stirring at their feet.

"How's Juliet?" she asked.

"In fighting form. Doctors seem a bit more optimistic."

"I never thought anything would take her down." She shivered. "I guess we should heed the advice and seize the day."

He stopped. It took her a few steps to realize that he was not beside her. She looked back at him, puzzled by his intense scrutiny.

"What?" she asked. "Is something wrong?"

 _Ask her_. The wind around him whispered, prodding, taunting. He blinked, dismissing the thought, only to have it replaced by another voice.

 _She's in love with you, Harry._

Juliet, harridan and harpy, made human by a crack in her spine, now blessed with the ability to see right through him.

A cloud shuttered the sun, the shade of the alley growing deeper. He should take advantage of this moment in the mews, away from prying eyes. Capture her face in his hand, run his thumb along her jaw and pull her close. Kiss her, taste the life the that flowed between them; rejoice in the fact that he had somehow drawn the card that let him walk out of that hospital. Celebrate that fate had not confined him to a wheelchair. How many more reprieves would there be? How many more opportunities?

Ask her.

To do what? Have a coffee? Go to dinner? Because once he had placed one foot on that path he could not go back, one taste and he would consume all of her.

Ask her.

She tilted her head to one side, waiting for him to speak. A gust of wind swirled between the buildings, lifting a strand of her hair. She tucked it back behind her ear, the act giving her a youthful appearance. She was still young. Too young for him. She still had a future, a chance for a normal life. What if she said no? Saw him for who he really was. Suddenly, he was overcome by self-doubt, buckling under the burden of his past, hands dirty with the acts that he had committed.

"I let Collingwood keep his belt."

"I don't understand. Is that some sort of code?"

Indeed it was; the silent agreement between spooks that no spy be taken alive in the field. It had called to him and he had adhered to it. "Usually, a prisoner surrenders anything that he might use to hang himself."

"Oh," she breathed, realisation slowly dawning. "And did he-?"

Perhaps he should have kept the information to himself, let her believe that Collingwood's death was caused by it was a bureaucratic oversight, but she was by now, familiar with the more unsavoury aspects of their line of work. The burden of the past few days weighed on him, he was tired, he did not want to carry it alone; she was the only one he could trust.

She licked her lips and drew a fortifying breath. "Justice. For Colin."

"Yes," he confirmed quietly. "But it stays between us."

She nodded and turned, her steps slowly taking her away from him. The air left his lungs, the opportunity for something more had vanished, swept away with the careless wind. He had forsaken it in order to relieve his guilt. Did she think him a monster for his actions? No better Collingwood? His arms hung limply at his sides.

A few paces away, she turned around an expectant look on her face. There was no recrimination in her expression only acceptance. She waited for him to join her.

 _She's in love with you, Harry._

The breath of life filled returned to his lungs, the mantle of his old confidence slowly cloaking him. He was Harry Pearce; he had so much to offer this woman.

It would happen. When the time was right.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N- Thank you so much for your kind words of encouragement the last time around. It's just taking me longer than I anticipated so thanks for your patience. I've moved an incident around from Harry's Diary. Hope you enjoy it!

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Chapter 19 - Love's Proper Hue

.

The night flew by outside the taxi window, the glaring lights of storefront signs changing to the subdued glow of intermittent street lamps. Carried along in the darkness, held captive in the moment, Harry noticed none of it. He only had eyes for her. The tension from the restaurant had followed them, sitting between them like a fellow passenger, imposing a dignified distance. During dinner, as the bottle of burgundy had emptied, they had eased into a more relaxed conversation, made even more pleasant by liqueur- laced coffees and alcohol soaked desserts. But then the bill had arrived and with it had returned the nervousness that always accompanied the unknown, the tremor of apprehension that followed all explorers as the headed out into a new world. A large part of him still marvelled that it was all happening. The invitation to dinner had slipped from his lips more easily than he had anticipated. Like any operation, he had laid the groundwork first, using information already gleaned, making the reservation, formulating the plan that the next time he found himself alone with her in a secluded setting, he would ask the question. It had rolled from tongue before he could talk himself out of it, and he had belatedly realised halfway through the question that she could say no. But she didn't.

His companion looked out of the window, her profile silhouetted against the darkness, flickers of light illuminating her face, revealing a beauty meant just for him. Or so he wanted to believe. A flutter ran through his chest as he studied her. Ruth's fingers played nervously with the clasp of her purse, opening and closing the metal, oblivious to the small clicking sound she made. He wanted to reach over and take her hand, still her fingers with the strength of his own. He could, there was nothing to stop him - only his insecurities. Apparently, they had not faded with his youth but instead had chosen that night to revisit him. The board was not entirely laid out in his favour, he did not hold all the cards, the balance of power was not in his hands. In fact, if he was being entirely truthful, he would have to admit that he had already ceded a certain amount of power to her. As she looked out into the night, her shoulders moved with a silent sigh. What was she thinking? He wanted her thoughts to be of him. Jealous of her secret thoughts, he reached across the seat and placed his large hand on top of her smaller one. The motion dispelled the invisible force that lay between them, and she turned to him, blinking as if he had awoken her. Her hand stilled under his and her body tensed. Her eyes fell to her lap as if to assure herself that his hand was real, and then having confirmed the fact, she squeezed it gently, raising her gaze to him with a soft smile. For him. Only for him. His lips moved with an answering smile, his chest expanding with a delicious warmth. He rubbed his thumb over the small mound of her knuckles, weighing the decision to tug her closer, wrap his arm around her and have her head rest on his shoulder. If only the ride would last forever, on through the endless night, allowing them to remain in the sweet bubble of anticipation. Once the taxi stopped at her door, it could very well disappear.

All too soon, they arrived at her house. The cab pulled up to the kerb and the driver glanced at Harry in the rear-view mirror, waiting for instructions. The meter ticked in the background, counting off the seconds, waiting for one of them to speak. His courage faltered, his mouth suddenly dry, so much weighing on his chosen words.

"Shall I walk you to your door?" he asked as breezily as he dared.

There was a moment of silence, his question left to hang in the air, and he steeled himself for her refusal. Her eyes ran over him, her lip briefly caught between her teeth and then a deep breath.

"Would you like to come in for a bit?"

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. But he held the words back, pride coming to the fore making itself heard. She could be asking out of politeness.

"I have an early start in the morning."

"Oh," she responded, the lone syllable coloured with disappointment.

It was all he needed for reassurance, a sign that she was not doing it out of obligation. The cabbie in the front seat gave a subtle cough, either to push Harry into accepting the offer or completing the fare.

"Perhaps for a few minutes." He could not help but let a smile break across his face imagining what he could accomplish in a few minutes.

She opened her door and stepped out, the coolness of the night invading the warmth of the cab. Harry fished in his billfold for a few notes and handed them over to the driver. The man gave Harry a knowing look in return. Ignoring the look, Harry hefted himself out of the cab, sucking in a breath as he braced himself against the night air. Ruth had moved on to the gate of her garden, the hinges squeaking faintly as she opened it. She paused; hand on the iron bars, waiting. He was there in two strides but by the time his hand touched the gate, she had released her hold and stepped away, leaving him to close it behind them. The metal latch clinked definitively, breaking the stillness of the evening, and he stood for a moment, overcome with the sensation that he had closed the door on one part of his life and entered another. In the distance, the red tail lights of the cab grew dim, carrying away whatever was left of their work personas leaving behind two unknown people in a tattered little garden. He turned to find her on her doorstep, a dark shadow under the outside light. She waited for him, her head peering slightly over her shoulder. How long had she been waiting? How long had she known what he had refused to admit? He moved up the path with a measured step, drawn to her as he always was; there was no need to rush, she would always wait for him. As he stepped up beside her, his chest brushed against her shoulder and his face came close to hers, the cloud of his breath touching her cheek. Half turned away, she focused on slipping the key into the lock. The door opened a crack, a piece of paper fluttering to the ground. Harry bent over and picked up the paper giving her a look of curiosity.

"I've had a few unwelcome visitors," she explained

"Malcolm was supposed to set up a system for you."

"I think he's been a bit preoccupied."

"I'll have a word with him." He would, of course, have more than a word with Malcolm, the man having left Ruth dangerously exposed. He would protect this woman no matter what the cost.

They entered into her hallway and she flicked on the light. Laying her clutch down on the small table under the mirror, she shrugged off of her coat. The movement was carried out so quickly that Harry was left with his hands half raised, too late to help her off with the garment. He had no coat, only a blazer, it was all he needed to stave off the elements. She, on the other hand, wore yet another layer, a velvet jacket in a rich chocolate brown. His fingers rubbed together, contemplating the softness of the material, wondering, as he had done on previous occasions if the skin beneath it was as soft. This could be the night he found out. His eyes wandered to her staircase. She stood nervously before him.

"Would you like a drink or something?"

He was sorely tempted to ask what the "something" was to see where that would lead but he stopped himself.

"I wouldn't mind a glass of that fine scotch you have.

"Alright."

He followed her down the small hall to her kitchen, the wooden floor creaking gently beneath his feet. He stopped in the doorway taking in the fact that for once he was not entering her domain in any official capacity but as her date. The pot lights glowed, and the burgundy cupboards greeted him like an old friend. He could get used to this kitchen. The cupboard hinge squeaked as she pulled out the scotch. She reached back in for a glass, and then upon reflection, retrieved a second glass. He came to stand beside her, leaning a hip against the kitchen island as she poured them each a measure.

"Tell me, how does a woman who professes to have a distaste for scotch come to have such a particularly fine single malt?"

"Someone told me I should develop a taste for it." She gave him rueful smile as she slid the glass toward him.

"Hmm," he answered, not believing her explanation. He had a sneaking suspicion there was a man somehow connected to the bottle. He wanted his suspicions to be proven wrong. He kept his eyes on her knowing that she would cave under scrutiny. She did.

"Actually, it was meant to be a present."

The explanation did nothing to allay his fears. "And what happened?"

"He didn't get it, obviously."

It was confirmation. There had been a man. Even though she was now with him, cocooned in the warmth of her kitchen, surrounded by the coloured cupboards, he worried that there was still someone else. He couldn't help himself.

"And why didn't he get it?"

"Oh...well…" She leaned back against the counter, averting her eyes, focused on the kettle on the stove."I guess I was afraid it would send the wrong message."

"What sort of message did you want to send?"

She shrugged her shoulders and took a large sip of her scotch. "Would you like to go sit down?"

Evading the question, she walked past him, her shoulder brushing his as she manoeuvred through the confines of the kitchen. He made to follow her, making an executive decision to bring the bottle of scotch along. He paused in the doorway, watching as she leaned over a small table lamp. Her necklace swung away from her throat as she turned the lamp on, the charms catching the light, momentarily distracting him. A cat lay curled on the couch, lying between a nest of papers and books. Ruth gathered up the books, adding them to an already unstable pile on the floor. The cat, however, stubbornly refused to leave.

"Come on," she coaxed. "Make room for Harry."

Giving Harry a suitably aggrieved look, the cat moved to an armchair across the room. Ruth sat down at one end, and Harry took her removal of the cat as an invitation to sit beside her. He placed the bottle of scotch on the small table in front of them.

"I had a similar dilemma with a present."

"Oh?" she prompted. She looked down at her glass and noticed it was empty, a small frown crossing her face. She placed the tumbler down on the table.

"I came across a rare volume." He refilled her glass, though she had not asked. "I have a friend who owns a shop."

"Is it really a bookshop or something else?" She raised a knowing brow at him.

He handed her the glass, an enigmatic smile on his face. Of course, Bernard Quattro was more than just a bookseller, but he was not about to confess that to her. Not yet, at least.

"He had a copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses." He took a sip, gauging her reaction. Her head tilted with interest. He had her attention. "It was signed by the engraver. Beautiful etchings."

"When was it printed?"

"'Early twentieth century."

"Strange to think of that as being from last century.

Harry swallowed his scotch, regretting that he had mentioned the date, having inadvertently called attention to things aged and antique. He looked down into his glass.

"I guess I'm a last century man."

"Well, I suppose when it comes down to it, I'm last century too," she said gently, a tiny crinkle to her eyes. "So what happened with the book?"

"I too was worried about how the gift might be viewed."

"Well, sometimes a gift is just a gift, isn't it?"

"Yes, a sign of appreciation."

"Or friendship," she added.

She placed her scotch on the table, half-finished, having outpaced Harry; he was still nursing his first glass. Wrapping her legs beneath her, she curled up on the couch, her elbow resting on the back of the seat as her hand supported her head. She looked at him with the eyes of a sphinx. What secret was she holding? He could sit in silence and admire her lapis blue eyes or he could puzzle out the riddle.

"So, the scotch was to be meant as a token of friendship."

Shifting in her seat, she undid the two buttons of her jacket, revealing a dark tee shirt beneath.

"Do you find it hot in here? The heating is rather old. It's either too hot or too cold."

His eyes fell to the scoop of her neckline, coming to rest on the merest shadow of cleavage that was revealed.

"I'm finding it just right."

Seemingly unaware of where his eyes were trained, she fiddled with her jacket, exposing the curve of her breast. On second thought, perhaps she knew exactly where his eyes were placed. Focusing back on her face, he realised that she was studying him. Her fingers played with hair at her temple.

"You're not wearing a tie tonight," she observed. "It's odd seeing you without one."

Her eyes were on the vee at his throat, and he suppressed the urge to raise his hand and bring the collar of his shirt together. He had forgone a tie, having decided on a blazer instead of a suit. That was his uniform, his armour and he wanted to be free of it tonight.

"It's a night off," he explained.

"Yes, I think we've done rather a good job avoiding work-related conversation."

"Considering we're dealing with a thermobaric bomb."

Her fingers stilled and her voice grew quiet. "Are you ever able to leave it completely on the Grid?"

"It is possible." He took a slow drink of his scotch, holding her eyes above the rim of the tumbler. "I have managed to find ...diversions."

A glow spread across her cheeks and she looked away. He hoped he hadn't given her the impression that she was just a diversion. She was for more than that.

"That was a lovely restaurant," she commented.

"I knew you would like it."

"Le Papillon. You remembered our conversation. It was such a long time ago."

"Looks like you're not the only one who notices things."

She smiled, eyes dropping to her lap. Her fingers moved down to the charms on her necklace. The tip of his finger rubbed along the outside of his glass, imagining the feel of the charms, the column of her throat, the slender line of her neck.

"I'll let you chose the restaurant the next time," he offered.

"You're assuming there's going to be a next time."

"I have been known to be presumptive."

"Well, I'll have to think about it."

His lips turned up wryly in response, enjoying the teasing quality of her voice. He drained his glass and contemplated the empty tumbler before sitting it down on the table.

"You never answered my question."

"What question?" she asked, confused.

"Who this scotch was for."

"I don't think you asked me that."

"Not specifically."

She looked at him warily. He held her gaze, refusing to let her off the hook. The wheels of her mind turned, her lips parted but no words reached her tongue. She was holding back. Why? Granted, it was none of his business; she could bestow gifts on whomever she pleased. But scotch was his domain. It belonged to him. Just as she did. His eyes narrowed, his suspicions morphing into a theory. It was him. She had meant the scotch as a gift for him. She blinked as if realising that he had come to a conclusion. He suppressed a smile. Her head swivelled to the cat on the chair, purring contentedly as it licked its paws. She turned back to him, a glint of challenge in her eye.

"You never told me who the book was for."

He pressed his lips together holding back the words. It was for her, of course, but he couldn't reveal that. He had already tipped his hand at the restaurant, musing about the grand tour and who he would like to accompany him. There was an imbalance in the scales. He needed an admission from her. The corner of her mouth turned up as she nonchalantly picked at her skirt.

"I'd be curious to see that book sometime."

Minx. She knew, just as he did. They could go on forever, playing this game, not admitting anything. She was trying to outmanoeuvre him, but he was the master; he knew how to break her. He only had to lure her in.

"Of course," he responded. "I'd be happy to show it to you."

"I hope you're keeping it in a safe place."

"It's on my bedside table." He lowered his voice. "Waiting."

Her breath caught in her throat, her mouth parting slightly with surprise. His chest constricted at his own daring, the audacity that he would say such a thing.

A chasm of silence opened up between them, swallowing the room, leaving only the barest of ledges for them to stand on. Dark, unknown, it invited them to let go, and fall into its depths. The rhythmic purr of the cat grew louder, Harry's chest moved in consort with the sound, his breathing following its tempo. She sat perfectly still, eyes wide with wonder, mesmerised by his breathing.

Let go.

Teetering on the edge, he leaned closer, his mouth a fraction away from hers.

"Who was the scotch for?"

The baritone of his voice came from a long forgotten spot deep within his chest. Hypnotised by the sound, she responded to it.

"You," she whispered. "It was for you."

His chest swelled. It was for him. Dates ran through his head? When had he been at her house? How much time had passed since he had stood in her kitchen sipping that scotch? Months? A year? She had harboured feelings for him all that time. Thoughts battled each other. Wanting, not wanting, afraid, desire rising within him. How was it that this woman elicited so many conflicting emotions?

Let go. Fall, take her with you. The time for waiting is over.

He tempered the urge to jump. Slowly, he lifted his hand, afraid that any sudden move might break the spell. He placed his palm alongside her cheek, her skin satin beneath his fingertips. She closed her eyes and tilted her head against his hand. His finger found the soft indentation under her ear and he drew soothing circles beneath it. Her chest barely moved. With the touch of a feather, he traced the line of her jaw, winding down the column of her throat, coming to rest on a charm. A piece of ivory calling to him to explore more. He ran his finger underneath it, gracing the skin above her breastbone. She shivered. He tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, control receding, giving way to hunger. Bending in closer, he moved his lips to her ear, his words barely breath.

"Don't be frightened."

"I'm not."

She denied it, but she still shivered, her breath an uneven flutter. Was she scared of him or of what the future held for them? The idea that his proximity stirred such a reaction in her thrilled him. His grasp on control became elastic.

"I'm just a man."

It was an assurance, a plea, a warning.

"I know."

There were no more words. There was only one thing he could do. His lips ghosted over her cheek and down to the fullness of her mouth. Pressing softly, he glided over her lips, the barest of kisses, each flavoured with scotch and a hint of decadence.

"You taste like chocolate,' he murmured.

"Mmm," she sighed, her hand moving to his arm, pulling him in closer.

His fingers wound into her hair, weaving into the strands at the nape of her neck, searching for restraint. She shifted her body, aligning her form with his, and he pressed harder against her, her scent surrounding him. How long could he last, content to only know her lips? His mouth moved in a rhythm against hers, lulling her into the security of his arms. He opened his mouth against hers, running his tongue along the seam of her lips, greedy to taste more. She parted under him, and he plunged in. The bottom fell out of his lungs and his heart beat loudly in his ears. His body cried for him to lunge at her, take her there. Hold back, hold back, relish the moment. The voice faded, drowned out by the roar of his breathing. All thought fell away, lying on the carpet at his feet, senses taking over. The scent of her skin, musk and rose, the velvet of her jacket, soft beneath his fingers. Acts that he had only ever imagined, now tantalisingly within his reach. A shiver of nervous tension ran through him, muscles tightening with control. He reached into his memory, caught between two worlds. When he was eight, he had been given a bag of chocolate buttons. He had eaten them all in one sitting, leaving his teeth aching from their sweetness. Too much of a good thing, his mother had said, while his brother had laughed at him refusing to share his bag of goodies. Moderation, it seemed, was the moral. Had he learned his lesson? There would be other dates, other nights where he could have her. His hands did not listen. They slipped under the chocolate brown fabric of her jacket, pausing on the delicate lines of her ribs. They carried on, sliding the jacket down from her shoulders. She pulled her arms free, leaning towards him, the charms of her necklace glittering in the half-light, tempting him. He moved in, lips finding the charm that had taunted him for so long. The skin above the chain was sweet beneath his mouth and he moved to the tender skin of her neck. Her pulse thrummed beneath his tongue as he sucked at her throat, pushing her back against the seat. Her fingers wrapped around his jacket pulling him back with her. He couldn't hold on any longer. The last of his reason slipped away and he let go. Hungry for what he had coveted for so long he let his hands roam where they desired. Lips demanding, his leg between hers, his hand found her breast, cupping its fullness as his thumb circled the over the fabric. He followed her waist down to her hips, searching for more.

"Harry."

He didn't hear her.

"Harry."

Her hand stopped his. He raised his head, slowly coming to his senses, her voice distant call.

"I ...we…"

He drew his head back looking down at her. "I'm sorry."

"It's just that we...we don't really know each other. I mean outside of work. And maybe we should…"

He shifted his weight, her words starting to penetrate his brain.

"Get to know each other?"

"Yes," she nodded. "Take things slow."

He eased himself off of her. She searched his face, eyes worried, asking for his understanding. He found her hand and raised it to his mouth, pressing his lips to her knuckles.

"We can take it as slow as you like."

She smiled at him.

"Besides I ... um..." He blinked, trying to focus, turn his mind away from carnal thoughts. "I have an early morning."

He sat for a moment, collecting himself, willing the tightness in his trousers to subside. She touched his arm, a tentative smile on her lips, her eyes glittering, mouth still bruised from his kisses. He couldn't be mad at her. He pushed himself up from the couch, and she followed. They stood looking at each other.

"Do you want me to call you a cab?"

"No. No. I'll do it."

He pulled his mobile out and dialled a number. As he spoke to the switchboard, he found Ruth's hand and wound his fingers between hers. He looked at her as he requested a cab, still not entirely focused on the outside world.

"They'll be here in a minute."

They sauntered out to her hallway, holding hands. The cat followed them; a chaperone too late to its duties.

"It was a lovely evening. Thank you."

"We'll do it again. And you choose the restaurant."

"I'll think about it."

He bent his head, intending to peck her on the cheek but she moved her head, her mouth coming under his and they kissed. One kiss, then two, drawing each out, longer, deeper.

A horn honked out on the street.

"Early morning," she murmured against his mouth.

"Yes, early," he murmured back.

With supreme effort, he pulled away. She opened the door for him.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

As he walked to the taxi, he whistled softly, the same tune that had been going through his head for a number of days. He did not feel the sting of the night air or the lateness of the hour. He was young and bold, wrapped in the memory of her kisses. He would sleep well that night.

.

The edge of the desk dug into the back of his thigh, but Harry did not move. He stared at the door, unblinking, unbelieving. A hollow ache grew beneath his left rib, the place where her words had landed like a fist. It didn't make any sense. It had been a perfect evening. She had kissed him. She wanted him just as he wanted her. They had agreed to take things slow. Fool, he was acting like a schoolboy, upset that a girl did not return his feelings. But he wasn't a schoolboy; he was the Head of Counter-Terrorism, he couldn't fall apart over the refusal of a second date. Pull yourself together, man. A call was on the line, he had to explain their actions to the Americans. He needed to focus. Damn! Never, never mix business with personal. He knew better. But this was different. There was no operation in danger of being compromised, she was not an enemy combatant. She was his analyst, his friend, his confidant. They had spent years together. It had not happened in an irrational moment of madness. There were hurdles yes, no relationship was without bumps, but there were so many ingredients for the workings of a fine romance.

He stood up from the desk, scanning the Grid. His hand balled into a fist. Who was laughing at him? Who had spoken to her and sown the seeds of doubts? Whoever it was, they would be banished to the bowels of Thames House or worse. On the other side of the glass, his staff moved about the floor, continuing on with their daily activities, no one sparing him a glance. No one was snickering, no one cared. Something had changed in her.

He came around to his chair and sank down. She had realised that he was too old, her boss, seen him for what he really was. The light on his phone blinked incessantly, demanding his attention. He glared at it, wanting to toss the phone across the room. Christ, how he wanted to be an ordinary man for just one day. But he wasn't. He had navigated coups, survived bullets, and overcome betrayal. Surely, he could convince this wisp of a woman that a relationship between them would not mean the end of the world. Closing his eyes, he rested his head in his hand. Wasn't love supposed to be enough? His eyes flew open. Love. Was he in love with her? Shit. He shook his head, shoulders shaking with a silent disparaging laugh, ruing the predicament he was in. He really was a fool. He placed his hand on the receiver. He would not give up. He had breached her defences once, and even if she were to resurrect a new wall, he would find a way around it.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20 - The Great Mystery

There had once been a time in the not too distant past when all Harry had asked of life was a good single malt and a fine cigar. Those days were gone. Sitting in one of the more opulent rooms of the Travellers Club, a glass of Glenfiddich in one hand, a fine Montecristo in the other, Harry closed his eyes and contemplated the conundrum that was Ruth Evershed. A man of strategy and cunning, he had always found it hard to cede the battle until all options were exhausted. The problem, as he saw it, was not her heart, he was certain that he had a claim on that, it was her mind that he had to win over. Nursing his wounds, he had come to the club, ensconcing himself in the world of gentlemanly pursuits, away from the lure feminine distraction. It was merely a tactical retreat, a moment to regroup. He drew in a few puffs on his cigar, savouring the woody taste, his tongue twirling around in his mouth as he let a lazy circle of smoke leave his lips. Perhaps he should accept his fate, embrace the destiny of evenings in well-appointed clubs, lounging in overstuffed chairs, surrounded by men equal forlorn stature. Relics of another time, the last bastion of the old boy's network. There were of course members who had wives, but they had chosen to forgo the companionship of spouses, put off by the cloying drudgery of familiarity. Would he grow tired of Ruth? Would she grow tired of him? It was rather a mute point seeing how he couldn't even get a second date with the woman.

It was a testament to their professionalism that they still managed to work together having tasted each other, sprawled on her couch, panting under wandering hands. For him, it was merely a matter of falling back on years of training, his default setting of compartmentalisation, the ability to carrying on as if none of it mattered. Ruth, on the other hand, lacking his experience had resorted to avoiding him entirely and when they were by circumstances forced to be in the same room, she refused to meet his eyes. It was a stellar accomplishment considering the confines of the Grid. She had even managed to remove herself from the team that was posted to Havensworth. That could be easily remedied. He would have Adam overrule her objections, and thus keep himself one space removed from the equation. Besides, it was a waste of personnel to have her stay on the Grid. If they had to relay everything back to the Malcolm, valuable time would be lost. The ash of his cigar hung heavy with neglect and he absently rolled it along the edge of the marble ashtray. Yes, Havensworth might be the place. There would be nowhere to run.

"Such deep thoughts, Harry. There is only one subject that would cause a man to brood in such a manner."

Bringing his focus back to the room, Harry raised his eyes to find that the seat across from him had been taken up by Oliver Mace.

"And what subject would that be, Oliver?"

"A woman, of course."

"If only." Harry gave the man a rueful look, exhaling a cloud of smoke that wafted toward Mace's face. "I was only going over details for the summit at Havensworth."

"Ah yes, James Allen's bid to save Africa and win a point for the Foreign Office."

"And the Prime Minister."

"If anyone can wrangle the Americans and the French I'm sure it's you, Harry."

"Greater men than I have gone down trying to do just that."

"Luckily, you're a man with alternative means of persuasion."

"We're there on a purely observational basis."

"You don't have to play coy with me, Harry. I know every move you make before you do."

Harry took a sip of his scotch and discreetly glanced around the room looking for a fellow member to deflect Mace's attention, or a means to extract himself from the conversation.

"Did you enjoy your dinner the other evening?"

The muscles in Harry's cheeks froze. Show nothing. There had been no sign of Mace at the restaurant that night, but then again Harry had been completely immersed in the aura of Ruth. That did not mean, however, that one of Mace's minions had not reported back to him.

"How is your wife?"

Harry imbued the words with enough innuendo to give Mace pause with his drink. Rumours abounded regarding Mace and his particular proclivities, though there was to date no evidence to support the hearsay. Harry made a mental note to do a little digging into Mace's personal life.

Mace raised an eyebrow at the question. "You know how wives are," he answered enigmatically as he took a slow drag of his cigar. "Tell me, how is the lovely Miss Evershed."

The skin on Harry's arm crawled with revulsion, his fingers curling tighter around his glass at the sound of her name coming from such an odious source.

"To the best of my knowledge, she's well. Why do you ask?"

"Only the concern I have for all members of our intelligence family." Mace rolled the cigar between his fingers. "GCHQ still bleats for her return."

"They can't have her," Harry responded quickly. And perhaps a little too forcefully.

"As Chair of the JIC, it's my prerogative to move the pieces where I see fit."

It was a veiled threat, though Harry couldn't fathom what it was regarding. He only knew that Mace was on a phishing expedition, prodding his pressure points. Self-preservation kicked in.

"I would think a man in your position would have greater worries than the day to day workings of the personnel beneath you."

"Not so of you, eh, Harry?"

Harry stubbed the end of his cigar out in the tray. It was a shame to end such a fine smoke but the taste in his mouth had gone sour. He took a calming breath. He had dismissed Ruth's concern that people were talking about them as nonsense, but he could not dismiss Mace. It was the scenario that he had dreaded, someone discovering a relationship between him and Ruth and using it as leverage. Except there was no relationship.

"I've an early start in the morning." Harry rose from his chair forgoing the niceties of a cordial good night.

"Yes," Mace acknowledged. "Do tread carefully at Havensworth, Harry. When one becomes intimately involved in negotiations they can go sideways."

Harry walked out of the room, the skin on the nape of his neck tightening, well aware that Mace's eyes were following him. The fibres of his gut told him that the meeting with Mace was not a coincidence. The universe was sending him a warning.

.

The mirror stared back at him, the dispassionate glass revealing dark-rimmed eyes, and the ever-deepening creases on his brow; the rewards of a sleepless night. Nothing that a few cups of strong coffee wouldn't cure. Muscle memory taking over, Harry flipped one end of his tie over the other, drawing up it into a Windsor knot, his mind preoccupied with the day ahead. On a professional level, they had managed to score a few points. The French trade minister had been sufficiently shamed by a group of school children into moving forward with the agreement. They had stumbled upon bilateral talks between the Americans and the Japanese which still needed to be deciphered. And the President of West Monrassa, Sekoa, was also cosying up with the Americans. Strange happenings indeed.

Hands dropping to his sides, Harry sighed at his reflection. On a personal level, negotiations were not moving so well. Ruth had practically bolted from him in the hall the previous night. Obviously, his decision to install her in Havensworth was not playing out as he had anticipated, instead, it had given her another opportunity to reject him. Pride told him to move on, a sentiment echoed by a deeper part of his subconscious. The strange conversation at the club with Mace whispered in the back of his mind. Tread carefully. He nodded to himself. At this point, the best course of action was to concentrate on the operation at hand.

The door to his suite opened with a gentle hiss and he stepped out into the hall. The corridor was unnaturally silent after the incessant base beat of the evening before. He sincerely hoped that the Italian trade minister was suffering from his night of debauchery. Moving down the hall, he paused for a second at Ruth's door. Was she still inside? No, but she was close. He shook his head, dismissing the notion that he possessed some sort of divination regarding her. It was only wishful thinking on his part that she should be in his vicinity. He rounded the corner, heading in the direction of the lifts but stopped abruptly. Ruth stood waiting; back towards him, her head bent over what he presumed was her phone. He blinked. The sight of her unnerved him. There were too many strings binding them together, he would always know her whereabouts. It was a connection that would not be easily broken. He hesitated, wondering if he should retreat to his bedroom and wait for her to take the lift alone. Oh for Christ's sake, he was the head of the section. The time for retreating was over. With a determined step, he continued on down the hall, the thick carpet muffling the sound of his tread. He arrived at her shoulder, but she remained unaware of his presence.

"Good morning."

She jumped and turned to him. She gave him a look of such fright that he instantly felt sorry for not making his presence known earlier. Her head swivelled about, furtively looking for other guests in the hall. Was she afraid that someone might assume that since they were standing in the hall at the same time that they had spent the night together? If they wanted to jump to that conclusion, let them. At least someone would get some enjoyment out of their predicament.

"Morning," she responded quietly, her eyes lowering to the carpet.

"Did you finally manage to get some sleep?"

She nodded and reached out to push the lift button. The button glowed yellowed but there was no tell-tale noise from the depths of the shaft indicating that the car was moving.

"Maybe I should check and see if there's a service problem," she suggested.

"Probably just busy."

Ruth pressed the button once more, leaning on it as if it were a distress signal. Stepping back, she crossed her arms in front of her chest, her toe tapping nervously. Harry focused his attention on the lift doors, contemplating the number of fingerprints spread across the chrome. The silence between them stretched out, distorting, amplifying their discomfort. Harry fiddled with his cuff, pulling his shirt down below the edge of his jacket sleeve. This was ridiculous. He searched for an innocuous topic.

"What exactly is the Macarena?"

Her head twitched with surprise and confusion. "It's...it's a dance."

"Ah," he answered. "I don't get in too much dancing in these days."

"Neither do I," she responded, the hint of a smile in her voice, her guard momentarily lowered.

Harry rocked on his heels. If they were a normal couple, the next obvious line would be for him to ask if she would like to go dancing. But they did not live ordinary lives and so the question was left unasked destined to remain suspended in the hallway waiting for another couple to take advantage of the opportunity.

"It seems rather silly to stand here waiting when we're only a few floors up. I um..." She gestured down the hall. "I`m going to take the stairs."

He dug his hands deep into his pockets resisting the urge to grab her by the arm and hold her back. His lips moved silently, telling her to stop running away.

Just as she turned to walk away, the lift bell gave a heralding ding. The sound stopped Ruth in her tracks. The doors opened, revealing an empty car. The lifts internal timer counted down the seconds, its sensors waiting for a passenger to cross the threshold. Without giving Harry a glance, Ruth rounded about and stepped into the car. His mouth gave an involuntary twitch and he followed her inside. He kept his hand in his pockets as he leant against the rear wall. Ruth ignored him, her attention focused on her phone. The door closed.

"No reception," She put down the phone in frustration.

Harry nodded, staring at the door in front of him, his reflection distorted by pockmarks in the stainless steel.

"We're not moving," she observed a slight note of panic in her voice.

He knew the reason they weren't moving but made no effort to rectify the situation.

"Someone has to press the button."

"Ah, yes." She gave a small laugh of self-deprecation, taking a step towards the panel and pressing the button. Once the lift was moving, she relaxed. "Funny how in America they call the first floor the ground floor."

"I've heard that."

"Yes, I've picked up quite a lot of American jargon, especially regarding," she cleared her throat. "Hockey."

The bell dinged and the door opened. Ruth's shoulders lowered with relief, and she moved to exit only to be stopped by a wall of delegates blocking her path. The lift had only descended one floor. Conversations of varying languages instantly displaced the silence of the elevator; Foreign Ministers and their attaches invading the space. The delegates were overwhelmingly male, awakening a protective instinct in Harry. As Ruth inched to the back the elevator, Harry moved to stand beside her. After a spate of jostling, Ruth ended up in a corner, Harry standing facing her, his body protecting her from the onslaught of people. An elbow pressed against his back and he placed his hand on the wall beside Ruth, using it to steady himself. The door gave an irritating buzz, signalling that it was unable to close because of the combined weight of the occupants. A few delegates begrudgingly left, but the buzzer still emitted its rattling noise. The sound was met by a chorus of moans and light-hearted chuckling. Harry kept his hand pressed on the wall beside Ruth, while she stared at his lapel, one arm crossed in front of her, attempting to hold her body back from pressing against his belly. Show nothing. He relaxed his facial muscles, maintaining an air of indifference, but she was frustratingly close and there was nowhere else to look. As he had done a hundred times before, he catalogued the details of her countenance; the wayward strand of hair, the freckle at her cheek, the sweep of her eyeshadow at the corner of her eye. Her eye moved under her plum coloured lids, noting the proximity of his arm.

A few delegates finally decided to leave the lift, but the doors did not close. A look of exasperation crossed Ruth's face. Harry leaned down to her ear.

"You're right. You should have taken the stairs."

She smiled without looking at him.

Keeping his head bent towards her, he stole the opportunity to subtly inhale her morning fresh skin. She adjusted her head, her eyes glancing at his lips and then rising to look at him.

"I didn't sleep at all last night," she whispered.

At her words, his heart stopped; momentarily stunned that she would impart such a revelation in the confines of a crowded elevator.

"Neither did I," he whispered back.

The elevator started with a jolt. He stood in exquisite agony, one hand in his trouser pocket the other placed on the wall beside her, each inhalation of breath causing his chest to push against her arm. Surrounded by a sea of trade delegates, there was nothing he could do. She closed her eyes and inhaled a shaky breath. The lift descended with the pace of a snail but Harry did not mind.

The car finally reached the first floor and the doors opened. The delegates disembarked in a cloud of chatter, leaving the lift to fall into silence once more. Harry let his hand remain on the wall beside Ruth, his eyes holding hers. He did not speak but held his breath conjuring up the same thought that he had silently intoned as they stood waiting for the lift. Stop running. She gazed back at him her mouth parting with a seeming revelation. She understood. Try as she might, she could not evade him forever. He dropped his hand and set her free.

They stepped out of the elevator in tandem, stopping briefly to get their bearings. Without any further words, they separated and headed towards their respective duties.

.

The great caveat when trying to manipulate affairs of state was always the indefinable variable of human reaction. As of yet, no algorithm had been created that would safely predict the workings of the human mind. Successful operations always made contingencies for the uncountable. Even though Harry had acquiesced to Adam's plan, he had instinctively known that it would not end with the best result. They had juggled fire in letting Baptiste Kadala carry out the assassination of Gabriel Sekoa, and now their fingers were burned. He should have anticipated the Allen would give the kill order and take out the girl.

The residue of Adam's anger still lingered in the room that they had commandeered at the hotel. The door reverberated with the force of his slam. Harry leaned back against the table, one hand over his eyes, his thumb massaging his temple. Ruth's voice filtered through his thoughts, coming from a distance as she spoke on her phone.

"Yes, yes, alright." Ending the call, she deposited her phone into the pocket of her coat. "The ambulance has left with the girl."

He did not look up at her but kept his eyes shut, infinitely worn and wearied by all the diplomatic skullduggery of the past few days. From the other side of the table, Ruth exhaled a large sigh, obviously as tired as he was.

"I always find it odd that an ambulance is still summoned even if there is no hope of life," she continued on, reflectively.

"It was a gamble at any rate; she knew her chances."

"Yes, but we offered her imprisonment. Instead, she received death."

"It was gross negligence on my part that I let it go forward. For an operation like that to pan out, it would normally take months of planning, various operatives put into place. It was implemented in haste and fell apart just as quickly."

Ruth moved around the table gathering up pens and papers, removing any evidence that they had ever been in the room.

"I think she was marching toward her fate. She wanted to take down Sekoa even if it meant her death."

The international fallout from this will be seismic."

"We have enough on various ministers to mitigate the repercussions on us."

"One can hope."

"You've always found a way to get out of these situations."

Preoccupied with her house cleaning duties, Ruth made no attempt to distance herself from Harry, rather she moved around the table in his direction. Standing beside him, she rifled through a stack of files with startling efficiency, her mind apparently able to codify and engage in conversation at the same time.

"I'm more worried about Adam."

Lowering his hand, he regarded her, transfixed by her fingers as they nimbly sorted through a stack of papers. He found himself at a self-imposed crossroad. It was not the monumental juncture that would decide the fate of humanity, rather a more personal dilemma asserting itself. She was a brilliant analyst, the best he had ever worked with. If he were to convince her to enter into a relationship with him, he might lose her as an analyst. He was not willing to make that choice. He wanted both. Begrudgingly he conceded that she may have already thought this through. She had made her choice. She wanted to be his analyst. He should respect that decision.

"I think you should ride back with Adam."

Her hands stilled on the files. "Oh." A moment passed as she digested his words. She traced an invisible line across the folder. "If you think that's best."

No, he didn't. He wanted her to ride back with him, to his house, to his bed. But any decision made in haste might, like the summit, lead to unintended consequences.

"He needs you more than I do."

The words spilt from his mouth before he had time to consider their effect. She tensed beside him. He opened his mouth, waiting for the words to come that would clarify his previous statement, but they refused to arrive. He could not help but feel that he had inadvertently let her go. The abruptness of her movements telegraphed that she interpreted it as such. She picked up the files, letting them waver in her hand for a moment, and then put them back down on the table.

"There was a box for these. I wonder where it's gone."

The moment to correct his words had passed, his heart sank into his chest as he resigned himself to what it seemed would be their new status quo. Head bowed, he pushed himself off the table. At the same moment, Ruth stepped away, turning to look in search of the box. Shoulders brushing, feet tangling together, they stumbled into each other. A sound of surprise left her lips as she teetered, her arm flying up to his chest. His hand rose to her forearm to steady her.

"Sorry," she murmured.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," he assured her in a low voice.

Had she heard the underlying meaning of his words? There was no need to be sorry for the choice she had made.

Having regained her balance, he waited for her to move away but she stayed rooted to her spot, her hand resting near the lapel of his jacket. Likewise, he did not relinquish her arm but kept his fingers on it with a gentle grip. The rarity of a private moment was not lost on them, nor the knowledge that it would quickly disappear. The door would open, the phone would ring, but until then, he would take this tiny sliver of space where she stood so close to him, her hand over his heart. He wanted to say something profound that would encompass their almost relationship, words that would override her doubts and fears and move her to be with him. He lacked the eloquence of the poets; he was, and always would be, a man better suited to action. And even though mere hours earlier he had witnessed the fallout of a hastily made plan, he chose to ignore the lesson. Their past was riddled with moments like this where he had talked himself out of giving in to baser instincts. Without thinking of the consequences, he bent his head to hers and placed a kiss on her lips. Soft, fleeting, it made no demands.

"Harry," she warned in a whisper. "Don't."

"Too late, I already did."

It was too late for him. He had resisted the fall until his endurance was tapped out, and now he swam in a sea of emotion with no idea which way to strike for land. He was treading water, waiting for her to join him. Or rescue him, for he could not see a way to save himself. His grip relaxed a fraction on her arm, giving her the opportunity to step away. But she remained, the pressure of her body increasing ever so slightly against his. They were both guilty of the intricate dance of push and pull. Something had to give.

"We can't go on like this," he whispered hoarsely.

"I know."

She looked at him from under heavy-lidded eyes, her mouth moving slightly with each breath. For the first time in memory, he silently begged her to walk away because the longer she stood in front of him, the harder it became to resist. Her fingers moved on his jacket, the tips pressing into his chest. His fingers closed around her arm, the weight of his hand pulling her closer. She leaned into him, her head tilting up, her mouth meeting his. Rather than questioning her change of heart, he increased the pressure of his mouth, coaxing, teasing, inviting her in. His free hand rose to her hip, pressing into the bulk of her coat, finding the curve beneath it. With a small moan, she moved her hand up to his shoulder. Their lips came together, searching, parting slightly, resolve melting with each breath. Kisses sitting on the edge of desire, each tempting the other, knowing that one move could tip them over. They held their bodies back from completely pressing into each other, meeting only at the lips and the places where their hands rested. Suspended. They moved neither forward nor backwards.

She pulled away.

"Harry..I…"

"Ruth."

He would not beg. He searched her face. Why? Why would she not reach out to him, join him in the seductive allure of what could be?

"We can't, Harry. We can't"

Sensing that she was about to walk away, he pre-empted her move and turned on his heels.

"Harry," she called out after him, voice wavering.

He continued to walk toward the door, heedless of her broken voice. He closed the door behind him the click of the latch echoing throughout the deserted hallway. Determined footsteps took him down the hall and away from her. He wanted to return to that room, kiss her until she saw things as he did, but instinct told him to walk away; leave her off balance just as she had left him. Let her flounder in the sea of unresolved emotions. She would reach out to him. She would come to him. They would save each other.


	21. Chapter 21

A/N – Not wanting to break with tradition, there is a bit of M content at the end of the chapter. For the holidays. ;)

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Chapter 21 - The Right Thing

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There is nothing quite as lonely as the solitary walk across a deserted parking lot. As Harry crossed through the underground lot the air of desolation was palpable. His nostrils filled with the fumes of spent exhaust, the low hum inadequate ventilation following him around every corner. The roar of a lone engine sounded in the distance, followed by the squeal of brakes as the car manoeuvred the tight corners towards the entrance. Harry's footsteps reverberated off the concrete walls, playing tricks with his senses, and he slowed down as he neared a pillar. He paused, waiting. It was only the echo of his heels. He was being paranoid. Continuing on, he jangled his keys in his coat pocket, briefly remembering Ruth's lesson in self-defence the night she demonstrated it with her keys between her fingers. He closed his eyes at the thought of her. She had come to him as he knew she would; after James Allen had torn a strip off of him over the death of Sekoa, after Ros had berated him for withholding the news of her father's sentence. (Though twenty years was still far too lenient a sentence for Myers, the man had led a coup and locked him up after all.) Entering his office with an air of trepidation, Ruth had assured him that he had done the right thing regarding Ros, underscoring her words by placing a gentle hand on his arm. There had been no grand overture, no declaration, only comfort. It was not what he had envisioned but it was a sign that she had not entirely forsaken him, though any satisfaction he gained by her gesture was tempered by the sinking feeling that it was all she would give him.

Tired and restless, he longed for company. Ros' words still echoed in his head. With biting accuracy, she had deftly labelled his life a walking disaster, an assessment he could not refute. The tangled mess between him and Ruth seemed no closer to being resolved, in fact, he had probably complicated matters even more at Havensworth. If he were to spend the evening alone, he would only brood over his lack of progress on that front, guaranteeing him another sleepless night. He weighed his options. There was the club with its promise convivial conversation, but after the international debacle with Sekoa assassination it was best to avoid any political circles. He could go home to Scarlett. She would welcome him, always ready with unconditional loyalty. But he had boarded her at a kennel while he was out of town; it was probably closed at that late hour. There was a pub a few blocks from his house; he could stop in for a pint. Yes, that's what he would do.

Nearing his car, he pulled out his keys, the chirp of his car alarm splitting the air as he deactivated it. The resulting silence was even more oppressive. His hand froze by the door handle, the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention. He cocked his head, listening. He was being followed. A bolt of adrenaline shot through him, instinct kicking in. He covertly scanned his surroundings careful to avoid giving any indication that he was aware of another presence. He had nothing to defend himself, only his keys and the element of surprise. He whirled around to confront his stalker.

She stood before him like a ghost, her white coat ethereal in the darkness. Surprised by his sudden turn, she stepped back and gasped, blinking with fright.

"Christ, Ruth!" His heart pounded with shock and relief. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought..." A look of panic crossed her eyes, her body tensing as if she were about to flee. She swallowed hard. "I thought perhaps we should talk."

The words every man dreaded to hear. Harry looked around the car park.

"Here?"

No. I..." She shifted her handbag from one hand to the other. "I thought perhaps you could give me a lift."

Harry's lips drew into a line as he debated his response. He would, of course, give her a ride, but he was a veteran of enough relationships to know that a talk was never a step towards romance but rather the dissolution of any such relationship. As much as he was intrigued by her appearance, the thought of dissecting the reasons why they couldn't be together as he navigated through the snarl of London traffic did not fill him with a sense of joy. She waited for his reply, her face unnaturally pale under the greenish hue of the fluorescent lights. Her eyes studied him, large and dark, giving her an unworldly quality, a nymph of the car park. The hem of her coat almost touched the ground, making her look small, and to his eyes, so very vulnerable. He could never refuse her. He nodded and gestured toward the passenger side of the car.

It was strange not opening the door for her and ushering her in; he missed the satisfaction of safely installing her in her seat. He waited while she strapped on her seatbelt, acknowledging that she was her own person, she could take care of herself. Keys in the ignition, he paused before turning on the engine. He was certain he would be driving toward disappointment; he was a glutton for torture, seeing he home, wishing her a good night and then leaving.

"Harry?" she prompted. "Everything alright?

Without answering, he started the engine and concentrated on backing out, navigating the Mobius strip of ramps that led to the exit. Once out on the street, he spoke.

"You can take tomorrow off if you like." He kept his tone neutral as he studied the traffic.

"Oh." She looked away from him and out onto the street. "I haven't finished my report on the summit."

"We all need a break."

Perhaps that was the answer, a break from her, a chance to regain his equilibrium and appraise the situation objectively. He should revisit his commandments; they had served him well up until that point.

The journey was conducted in silence, tension creeping in through the vents, even as he adjusted the heat. He had no idea what to say. It would have been easier if he had met an assailant in the parking lot.

Pulling up to the kerb near her house, he left the engine running, his hand remaining on the steering wheel.

"Come in for a minute." It was neither a question nor a command, more of a tentative offering.

Doubting the wisdom of his decision, he nodded, cutting the engine and releasing his seat belt. Her house was melancholy in the winter night, the lustre of promise that it had held a few nights ago now lost. The squeak of her gate only served to underscore the breakdown of their relationship, the clink of the latch, a signal of closure. She fiddled with the lock, a larger version of the last one, gleaming with a new brass finish. Crossing the threshold, she immediately stepped over to a small panel and quickly tapped in a set of numbers. She turned to him, an apologetic smile on her face.

"Malcolm put in a new system."

She did not move further into the house but remained in the hallway, dashing his hopes of a chat over a glass of scotch in her kitchen. Her hands played with her scarf, crossing it over the collar of her coat, hiding any hint of the woman beneath. He waited, hands hanging by his sides.

"You wanted to talk," he reminded her.

She drew a deep breath, face serious as she weighed her words. "I think I owe you an explanation-"

"You don't need to explain." He cut her off, a defensive reaction, anticipating a list that was sure to enumerate his shortcomings.

"I'm not sure if I should stay," she blurted out.

"What?" Utterly unexpected, her words hit him in the gut. Senses roused to attention as if he had been sleepwalking, he challenged her, the instinct to fight having been awoken. "You can't leave."

"You said it yourself; we can't go on like this."

"I didn't mean for you to leave. I meant..." Not knowing how to articulate his thoughts, words escaped him. They were on a tightrope, he going forward, she stepping back, a safety net lacking in either direction.

"I'm not very brave, Harry."

"Of course you are. You're braver than you think."

"It's like Malcolm said, I dread the day where I will be called upon to use it."

"But you have already."

"It's easy for you. You're...you're..." She raised her hand in frustration, muttering to her self. "Oh, god, it sounded better in my head." Taking a deep breath, she continued. "You're the head of counterterrorism, you walk into a room and it fills with your presence, you command attention. I'm the girl in the corner."

"You are far from the girl in the corner."

"I'm not made for the spotlight. You are

"I don't understand why you've written an end to our story before it's even begun."

"Because..." She ran her fingers through her hair, scrunching her lips as she debated how much to reveal. She glanced at the door; she could not flee her own house. After a sigh of resignation, she decided to continue. "At GCHQ, there was a senior officer in cybercrime, and I don't know why, but he chose me. And I...I adored him, but it got very messy, very quickly. There were whispers and innuendo, accusations of favouritism, my achievements weren't merited. It was one of the reasons jumped at the secondment to Five."

The bottom dropped out of his stomach, the idea that she had adored another man spearing his heart. Shit. How many men had there been? A tally ran in his head. He stilled his mind, trying to focus on her words, telling himself that they were a window into her reasoning.

"And with you, it would be even worse," she concluded.

His head recoiled as if stung. "A relationship with me would be worse?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean in the sense that there would be whispers and speculation and-"

"I told you I don't care about that."

"But I do." She implored him to understand. "I'm a woman, I'm your subordinate. I've worked hard. I don't want to leave-"

"No one is saying you have to."

"But I don't see any other way."

He was losing her. His mind rifled through tactics and arguments, landing on the only question he could think of. "If you knew all this, then why did you agree to go on a date with me?

"Oh…." The lines on her face disappeared, her brow softening. "You were so…" Her voice faded away and she closed her eyes. "It was one of the things I had always imagined you doing."

He straightened up, head cocked, digesting her words, a switch moving in his mind, sending his thoughts off on a different track.

"You imagined me doing things?"

She blinked, her diatribe derailed, her mind backing up as she realised that she may have revealed too much.

"I… well…"

"What sort of things did you ... imagine?"

"I..um..." She looked down at the floor and nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

A thrill ran through him, an opportunity presenting itself, the suspicion that he may have discovered the crumbling brick at the base of her argument. He only needed to reach in and pry it loose, and it would all come crashing down.

"You imagined I would ask you to dinner," he reiterated in a coaxing voice. "What else?"

She kept her eyes lowered, a crimson flush creeping over her cheeks. He pressed his advantage.

"A kiss perhaps." He inched a step closer. "Maybe something a little more?"

Mustering her self-preservation, she gave him a level look, her lips drawn in an emphatic line. He would get no more from her. There were other ways to chip at her wall.

"Do you want to know what I imagined?"

Her mouth dropped open, well aware that he did not hold the same reticence in these matters that she did. Her gaze flitted about, landing on the wall, his shoes, her hands.

"I think we've gotten a bit off topic."

He waited, knowing eventually that her eyes would find his. When they did, he inhaled slowly, drawing her in, her breath all but stopping. Satisfied that he had her attention, his lips moved in the merest hint of a smile. She knew him, she read him, aware of his thoughts before he had them. His eyes moved down to her lips.

"Carry on then," he graciously conceded.

"I…" Her thought unfinished, she licked her lips nervously.

"You were saying?"

He let his gaze drop to her scarf, slowly unwinding it with his eyes, revealing the column of her throat, remembering the pulse where he had pressed his lips. His mouth parted with the memory.

"Harry….:"

"Hmmm?" He barely heard her words, the fingers of his mind undoing the buttons of her coat, peeling back the fabric of her shirt.

"Don't do that."

He raised an innocent brow. "Do what?"

"That…. look." She crossed her arms. "It makes it more difficult."

"To do what?"

Her eyes dropped to the floor, unable to meet his. She drew in a shaky breath and gathered her courage before giving her quiet answer.

"To say no."

"Then don't."

Once again, they had reached the end of the rope. He was willing to let go. Was she? His eyes roamed over her making no attempt to hide his desire for her. Her head tilted to one side. He could almost hear her walls cracking, bricks falling away. He chanced a subtle step closer, cautious, not wanting to overreach. She swayed, teetering on the edge of capitulation, but she held back.

From somewhere deep inside her house, a burst of air sounded - the flame of her boiler igniting. In the silence of her hall, the pipes ticked softly, followed by a distant rattle from the upper floor as the water wound its way through the system. A hiss sounded from the radiator beside him, growing louder as steam filled the pipes. He stood, desire trickling through his veins, staring at the woman he had that covertly coveted. Pressure grew in his chest, the bands of duty and responsibility stretching, thinning, dissolving. A valve opened, feelings expanding and rising to the surface, refusing to be denied. He called to her with his secret soul, speaking to her with his eyes.

 _Put your hand over my heart. Take it._

She stepped back as if he offered her fire.

He raised a gloved hand toward her, palm upturned. It was him, impervious leather on the outside but a man beneath, should she care to expose it. She looked down at it and then back up at him.

 _Take it._

She was so close, he knew from experience, recognised the signs; the parting of her lips, the tempo of her breath, the tension melting from her shoulders.

"Ruth."

Her name barely brushed over his lips, but she had heard it. He would wait as long as he needed, holding his hand out to her. There would be no retreat, only surrender.

It fell from her, the last piece of the wall and she reached out to him, her slender fingers coming to rest on the dark leather of his glove. Instantly, his fingers wrapped around hers, pulling her into him, the slightness of her form colliding against the solidness of his body. His chest heaved with the relief, and he closed his eyes, his mouth next to hers.

"I never meant for this to happen," he confessed, voice low, a warning that he was moving out of his depth.

"Neither did I," she whispered.

His mouth claimed hers, consuming her, breathing her in like a drowning man. Her fingers clutched at the lapels of his coat, pulling him closer, desire unbound, throwing them off balance. They stumbled; he turned with her, pushing her back against the wall. Her head bumped against the wall, a soft moan escaping her lips.

"Sorry," he murmured.

But he wasn't sorry. With his arms around her and her back against the wall, she could not escape. He had her all to himself. Seconds, minutes, time immaterial as they tasted each other, his tongue thrusting deep inside her. She nudged against him, and he released his hold, letting her ease away. Following her lead, he took a step toward her living room, envisioning the comforts of her couch. She pulled him in the opposite direction, stepping onto her stairs. He looked at her in confusion.

"What are you doing?"

"Isn't this what you want?" she asked.

"Yes, but..." The memory of her wanting to wait until they knew each other surfaced. He may never solve the riddle of this woman, but then he was not entirely sure that he wanted to. "What do you want?"

The step brought her eyes level with his, and she looked deep into him, the blue parsing his thoughts, delving into his being. She raised her hand, her finger drawing through the hair at his temple, coming round to his cheek, cupping his face. She bent her head towards him, her forehead pressing against his.

"I want you."

She released her breath in a huff of relief, the admission setting her free.

With a rush of gratitude, he found her lips, shoulders moving with a sigh as her arms wound their way around his neck. He lost himself in the perfect placement of her lips.

Unwinding herself from his grasp, she took his hand and led him up the stairs. They paused on the landing, the glow of a lone street lamp filtering through a stained glass window, shades of orange and red reflecting on her face. He wanted to see her body under that light. To his amazement, he realised that she was still in her coat. How had they managed to drink in so much of each other without removing a stitch of clothing? He leaned back against the wainscoting, tugging at her scarf, the wool uncooperative under his leather gloves. She caught his hand in hers, and he searched her face thinking that she was about to halt their progress. As she held his wrist, her fingers worked over the leather of his glove, pulling at the tip, inching it upward, her lip caught between her teeth as she concentrated on easing it off of his hand. A tiny smile of triumphant graced her lips and she met his eyes, the glove dangling in her hand. Hypnotised, he swallowed hard, the lick of lust so long denied stirring within him. In the same manner, she relieved him of his other glove. His hands unencumbered, he reached for the ends of her scarf drawing her into him.

"I wanted you at that hotel." He drew the scarf slowly from around her neck, letting it fall indiscriminately at her feet. "I've wanted you for such a long time."

His words elicited a tiny whimper from her as he set to work at the buttons of her coat. As he pushed back her collar, she evaded his grasp, lithely stepping on the stairs, her arms slipping free as he pulled the coat from behind. After a few steps, she turned and he paused on the step beneath her. Rising above him, she freed the buttons of his overcoat and unceremoniously dropped it to the ground, the bulky garment sliding down the polished steps to the landing. She steadied herself with her hands on his shoulders; his head was brought level with her breasts. One hand on her hip, he brought the other one up to cup her breast, moulding his palm to its rounded perfection. Fingers bunching at the material at her hip, he wanted to drop to his knees right there and run his hand up his skirt, leaving a trail for his mouth to follow. He swayed imagining the taste of her. She smiled with her knowledge of the sphinx and led him on. He followed, Apollo to her Danphe afraid that at any moment she would be turned into a laurel tree.

He caught her at the top of the stairs, pressing against her, marking her, ensuring that no god could take her. She slipped her hands under his jacket and worked it off over his shoulders, the mobile in his pocket making a soft thud as it hit the ground. He didn't care. He hoped it was broken. There was no light on her upper floor so they moved along her hall in shadow. The forbidden veil of his secret dreams pulled back, he followed her into her bedroom. The room was shrouded in darkness, the night starless outside her window. Stepping blindly behind her, his foot hit a book sending it across the floor.

"Sorry," she apologised. "I wasn't expecting any guests."

"I'm glad you weren't expecting anyone."

His hands found her in the darkness. "I can't see a thing."

"There's nothing to see."

His lips grazed her cheek, his mouth next to her ear. "I want to see you."

She leaned away from him, her waist supported by his hands as her arm reached around to the space behind her. There was a bump as her hand hit an object, followed by a thud and the gentle tinkling of glass.

"Oh, shit." She turned back to him. "Oh well, you'll just have to wait until next time."

He latched onto her words. Next time; there would be the next time.

The squeak of a mattress told him that she had sat on the bed, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out her silhouette dimly visible as she undid the zipper of her boot. The slight rasp of metal teeth dragging down the leather sent a frisson of desire through him, the serpent coiled at the base of his spine uncurled, hungry for her. He toed off his shoes and in one swift move, pushed her back onto the bed, the weight of his body falling on top of her.

"I still have a boot on," she objected, her lips on his chin as she pulled at his tie.

If only that was all she had on. Mouth on hers, his hand found her leg and drew it up alongside him, manipulating the leather as he slid off the offending boot. His fingers skimmed her ankle, encircling the bone, marvelling at how small it was. The curve of her calf fit perfectly in his hand, her leg briefly stretching above them; blood in his groin stirring as he mentally noted its flexibility. She wrapped her leg around him as they sprawled haphazardly across her bed. His fingers roamed over her in the darkness, reminding him that she still wore a jacket and a shirt beneath it.

"I think we missed a step," he murmured against her neck.

Somehow, she had managed to remove his tie, although he had no idea where it had gone. He rolled off of her and sat up pulling her up with him. He made quick work of her jacket but before he could remove her shirt, she drew up on to her knees and pushed him back onto the bed. He lay for a moment, stunned by her forcefulness, blinking as she hitched up her skirt and straddled him. His lips curled with delight, the confirmation that the wild streak he scented in her before was a reality. Her hands ran over his chest, thumbs teasing his nipples, and he gave over to her ministrations, relishing the feel of her fingers as they weaved through the wiry hair over his heart. She undid the cuffs of his shirt, and with his help pulled the sleeves off his arm. His hands came to rest on her waist as she shifted on top of him, creating a delicious friction, his want growing, erection hardening. Bending over him, her mouth covered his with a wanton heat, her hands working at his belt, fingers slipping into his trousers, stroking him. He moaned into her mouth, reality outstripping his imagination. His hands moved under her shirt, the bones of her ribs and spine hard under the melting softness of her skin. She broke from the kiss and sat up, removing her tee shirt in one sweeping move. His hands moved automatically to her breasts, nipples distended under the fabric of her bra. He found the clasp of her bra, and with a dexterity that amazed even him, he unhooked it, drawing it free from over her arms. Half naked, she rose temptingly above him, almost out of reach. Galvanized, he sat up, kissing her hard, asserting his claim on her before rolling her onto her back. Their orientation on the bed was completely irrelevant, the cover in disarray, their clothes scattered everywhere. They were close to the edge; of the bed, of oblivion, he didn't care. Tongue and lips trailing over skin he had only ever glimpsed, he tasted the valley of her cleavage, hand massaging the supple flesh. Drawing her nipple into his mouth, he flicked his tongue over the tip, sucking at the hardened peak. Her hands stilled on his shoulders as she arched against him, her soft sighs of pleasure spurring him on. His hand slipped between her legs, the fabric of her skirt tangling between his fingers, his progress impeded. Not finding the zip of her skirt, he tugged at her tights, his fingers ripping through the sheer netting. He did not even pretend to be sorry. He raised his head from her breast, allowing her to wriggle under him as he pulled the tights down her legs. Distracted by kisses, they lay on their sides, his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, the flesh of her breasts pressed against his chest. His hands ran over her, detailing secret curves that had only ever been hinted at, his fingers pressing into the roundness of her ass as they slowly gyrated against each other. Restless hands moved over her and he stumbled across the zip of her skirt, undoing it, finally freeing her of the constraint. The tips of his fingers traced over the flimsy material of her pants and he inhaled sharply through his teeth, the dampness between her legs momentarily stopping his heart, starting again as he preened with the knowledge that it was he who had made her wet. His mind stuttered, overwhelmed by lust, remaining shreds of finesse falling away. He hastily tugged at the material, allowing her to help him. He slid one finger inside her, hot and slick, and then two, her legs parting as she moaned beneath him. He kissed a line across her belly, the scent of her overwhelming all thought. His mouth moved to join his fingers, the taste of honey on his tongue, as lapped her. Somewhere in the distance, his name floated to him on a sigh, then a plea, then as a guttural moan from the depth of her being. Bucking beneath his mouth, her limbs suddenly tensed and then melted with a shudder. He wanted to continue, but her fingers tugged at him, his name now a summoning whisper. Pulling himself up her body, he let his hands roam over her exposed flesh, fingers gliding across her skin, warm and slightly damp, blood thrumming beneath the surface.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispered, awe in his voice, overcome by the wonder that the woman who had only ever visited him in his dreams now lay before him.

She reached up and pulled his head down, rewarding him with a kiss, signalling the satisfaction of her desire, and serving to remind him of his unfulfilled hunger.

He struggled with his trousers, cursing as his foot became entangled, finally freeing himself and tossing them carelessly off the bed. A shiver ran through her body as he hovered over her, his arms holding him away, wanting to draw out the moment that had haunted his nights. He lowered himself, laying over her, covering her with the heat of his body. So small beneath him, and yet possessing her own particular strength. She was brave. He kissed her throat, her chest. And she was his. All his. Delicate wrists trapped in the circle of his fingers, he captured her hands and drew them up over her head, his mouth moving over hers, plundering her depths with his tongue. Pressing into her, hips grinding against her, he wavered, control unravelling. In an effort to pace himself, he pulled back, teasing her with the tip of his erection. She wriggled maddeningly under him, arching against him, her legs opening in invitation. Think of something, anything. He couldn't. His heart thudded in his chest, the roar of blood thundering in his ears, only one thought paramount. Christ, he needed to be inside her. Giving up, he slowly slid into her, pausing as he grasped for a thread of control. He let go of her hands, and her arms embraced him, drawing him closer, her legs wrapping around him. He moved against her, her body rocking under him, desire overtaking everything. His hand kneaded the muscle of her thigh, returning to the curve of her calve, fingers pausing, a moment of hesitation before deciding to move along the length of her leg, stretching it above them, spreading her, allowing each of his thrusts to plunge deeper. He couldn't hold on any longer. He didn't want to hold on. Nothing mattered. Heart pounding perilously, lungs heaving, his breath mixed with the soft pants of her moans. With one last powerful thrust, he released himself into her. Tremors coursed through him, the aftershocks of ecstasy. It was his turn to shudder against her, his mouth finding the hollow of her neck as he collapsed on top of her. She panted beneath him, her heart beating against his. Worried that he was crushing her with his weight, he tried to move but couldn't. Gravity, more than his own muscle power, helped him slide partially off of her. She stirred. A blanket or a duvet, he wasn't sure which, was drawn up over his shoulder.

"Stay with me, Harry," she whispered, the voice from his dreams.

"Yes," he murmured, pulling her closer. "Always."

She curled into him, her breath soft and steady against his chest. He gave a contented hum. Far from being a disaster zone, his life at that particular moment in time was satisfyingly complete.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22 - Interlude

Resentment burns the hand that holds it. Ros Myers, Harry was certain, held onto her resentment with an iron fist. He flicked the elastic band on the interagency envelope that had been couriered over from Six and carefully extracted the confidential papers. Even with the obligatory redactions, he could see that Ros' time at Six had been put to brilliant use. His main concern was if that brilliance would be used for him or against him. He was not a member of the judiciary, it was not his fault that Jocelyn Myers had received such a lengthy sentence, he had even gone so far as to ask for leniency, but he knew it made no difference to Ros. She needed someone to blame and he was in her sightlines. His skin was thick, he wasn't in the job to be liked, but it did raise questions. Was she an asset or a liability? It had been Adam's idea to bring her on, and Harry trusted the instincts of his Section Chief - Zaf and Jo had been excellent additions. Over the course of the past two operations, Ros had acquitted herself admirably, turning a young woman to their advantage for Waterfall, and then more recently worming herself into Traynor Stiles' room at Havensworth. Harry appreciated her reserve, her calculated coolness and, if he were truthful, her acerbic turn of phrase. There was undoubtedly friction between her and Ruth, but that sometimes served to keep officers on their toes. He closed the file. Only time would tell if Ros would be as loyal to the Section as Zaf and Jo. And by Section, he meant himself.

He absently pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk, intent on filing away his concerns over Ros Myers, stopping when the clack of wheels on the metal track was followed by the soft clink of glass. He looked down, puzzled. Four bottles of what looked to be scotch stood to attention in the drawer and he eyed them curiously wondering how they had migrated from the credenza. A quick glance at his ad hoc bar told him that these bottles were new. Cautiously, he slid one halfway up and noticed that there was a letter marked on the cap. R. He bent lower to inspect the top of the other bottles. U. T. H. His lips twitched with a half smile. He extracted a bottle and discreetly read the label. It was the same brand that had sat in her kitchen cupboard. He let out a soft whistle. Four bottles would have set her back a pretty penny. How had she gotten them in here without him noticing? Warmth spread across his chest, rising up his neck, a flush covering his face, the unexpectedness of the gift pleasing him as if he were a schoolboy, the hidden meaning behind it filling him with a different sort of pleasure. He raised his eyes, looking out on to the Grid in search of his benefactress. She was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his eyes met the hawk-like stare of Ros, her narrowed eyes giving him the distinct impression that she knew exactly who he was searching for. He held her look until she dropped her gaze. He would not be intimidated by her. He placed the bottle back in the drawer, the letters on the caps rearranging themselves into a different word. Hurt. He stared at the word. A portent of things to come? He shook his head dismissing the notion. He moved the bottles back around to spell her name. Satisfied with his reworking of fate, he closed the drawer and decided to track down his missing analyst.

He emerged from his office, a nameless tune on his lips, a lightness to his step. As he passed by Zaf's desk the young man lifted his head and gave him a cheeky grin. Harry stopped, his countenance immediately turning to stone.

"Is there something about the current operation that you wish to share, Mr Younis?"

The smile fell from Zaf's face and he cleared his throat. "No. No. Nothing yet."

Harry gave his officer a suitably dour look.

"Do let me know when you've decided to get on with your job."

Harry straightened his shoulders and walked away; leaving Zaf to wonder what crime he had committed. The back of Harry's neck bristled and he could sense the eyes of Ros Myers following him. Nothing escaped that woman. He would have to watch his step. It would never do to be seen as excessively happy, conclusions might be drawn. Adam had let it slip that Zaf had been running some sort of betting pool on him and Ruth. Assurances had been made by Adam that he had dealt with it, but Harry had the sneaking suspicion that all he had done was to increase his wager. If Ruth ever got word of such connivance all would be lost. They had gone out of their way to be discreet; no inadvertent touching, no lingering gazes, never left in the room alone, he was more than willing to uphold her parameters if it meant he could be with her.

Harry rounded the corner and saw the object of his search. Ruth stood in the corridor conversing with Adam, a pen in one hand, a file in the other, her face animated as she explained her findings. Harry paused, searching for the word to define the particular quality of her beauty. It could not be distilled down to one element; it was born of an alchemy of ingredients; intelligence, integrity, unsettling blue eyes. In his youth, he would have assigned her to the periphery of his life, but now he understood the timeless appeal of her hidden charms. A package whose value was only known once unwrapped. And he had pulled the string. He waited until Adam had retreated in the opposite direction and then slowly started down the hall. Ruth looked up, her face softening, the hint of a smile showing before she quickly subverted it. Hands in his pockets, he walked towards her, pleased that she did not flee.

"I was just telling Adam that I figured out the money trail," she said. "I traced the transactions between a number of limited liability companies..."

Her voice faltered as he came to stand beside her. She could not meet his eyes, nerves descending upon her. He inhaled a breath of satisfaction; enjoying the fact that he still had the ability to fluster her. He did not respond to her revelation but waited patiently for her to continue.

"The transfers were just below the amount that the banks normally flag..." She looked down at her file, fumbling for a paper as he moved in closer. She took a step back and came up against the wall. "There was a development deal ..."

Keeping one hand in his pocket, he placed the other hand on the wall, close to her face. She looked up with surprise. He bent his head to her.

"Would you like to come to mine later?"

Her eyes moved to his arm and then back to him, a tremor panic in her voice. "I thought we agreed we wouldn't discuss anything personal at work."

"How else am I supposed to ask you out?"

She closed her eyes in an attempt to dampen a smile. "I'll have to see if I'm free."

"I think you are."

"How do you know?" She gave him a reproachful look.

"I talked to your boss; he's given you the night off."

"That's very magnanimous of him."

"He's a generous man."

She shifted her weight, one knee bending along with her resolve. She leaned back against the wall and looked up at him. He let his weight rest on the arm by her head, his eyes falling down to her lips. It would only take a slight dip of his head for his lips to glide across hers. He wondered if there was a golden ratio for a man and a woman, a divine relation of height. If there was, she must surely be the answer to him. At the end of the hall, voices grew louder and then faded. Ruth tensed, the discovery of their intimacy narrowly averted.

"I'll have to see what I can do."

Before he could say anything else, she slipped past him.

"Seven o'clock then," he called after her.

She threw him one last look of warning over her shoulder and continued on. It had been incredibly indiscreet of him to trap her in the hall like that but it had felt marvellous. This game of subterfuge added an extra element of intoxication to their secret affair. Living on the edge the knife always left him exhilarated, it was a hard habit to kick, and she afforded him the perfect fix. He smiled. He would thank her for the scotch later.

.

The sheets rustled quietly as they slipped off his back, the cool air of the bedroom stealing across his shoulders. It made no matter, he felt nothing; he was completely absorbed in the heat of her body. The light of his bedside lamp danced across her skin, the sheen brought on by their exertions glistening across her breasts. Dipping his head, he pressed his lips to her neck, a mixture of salt and her essence whetting his appetite. He raised himself up, his arms struggling to find leverage as the force of his thrusts slid her across the counterpane. The headboard tapped softly to the rhythm of their breathing, the mattress sighing along with their pleasure. As she unfolded beneath him, days unfolded before him, accompanied by an equal number of satisfying nights. Her legs surrounded him, her fingers clutched at his arms, and his mind became gloriously free of thought. A trail of perspiration trickled down his spine, muscles and nerves concentrating on one goal. He held off, searching for willpower but the addiction was too sublime, the temptation too great. He closed his eyes and with one last groan, gave in. Having given everything over to her, he collapsed.

He rolled off of her, his arm scooping underneath her body bringing her along with him. As she lay beside him, the beat of her heart thudded against his ribs, matching his own irregular pulse. Her head moved with the rise and fall of his chest as he tried to regain his breath. He was out of practice but a few more sessions like that it would be remedied. The air settled around them, pricking at the perspiration on their skin, but he was too spent to reach down and pull up the sheet. Eyes fluttering closed, he idly traced a finger over of her shoulder, the angular bone jutting out beneath her soft skin. The wave of lust having receded and he was overcome by a sensation of tenderness, a great expanse opening up within him, the need to protect her. He would find a god and lay a bounty at its alter in gratitude but for the moment, he was satisfied to hold her in his arms. He could lie in that state forever. He swallowed, wanting to express his content but unable to find the words. Years of repression could not be undone overnight; the fear lying just below the surface that should he reveal anything to her he would somehow jeopardise himself. It was the residue of field training, ingrained in his psyche. Never let them see your true feelings. Granted, she had not asked anything of him, nor voiced her own feelings. They were made of the same reticent cloth, though she was fashioned from a different loom. They were both very adept at navigating past the island of emotion. They might land there someday, given enough time.

She stirred against him and moved her leg over top of his.

"We have to stop doing this."

His finger stilled on her shoulder. "Doing what?"

"Leaving work early."

He let out a breath, relieved that she wasn't alluding to the dissolution of their clandestine affair. His fingers continued their slow circles.

"What do you mean early?' he asked. "I left at six thirty."

"Yes, well, I left at six to get the tube. I never leave that early." She reached down patting her hand about, searching for the covers.

"I offered you a lift."

"I can't take a ride from you. Then people would know."

He raised an eyebrow at her puritan tone. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that people already suspected they were lovers. Even outside the Gird rumours had reached his ear, allusions finding their way into conversations at the club. But he remained silent. Let her believe that they still evaded scrutiny.

She lifted her head, placing her chin in her hand as she rested it on his chest. "When did you know?"

"Know what?" he asked innocently, although he had an inkling as to what she meant.

"When did you know..." She lowered her eyes as her fingers inscribed a pattern on his skin. "When did you realise that you liked me?"

Putting his hand behind his head, he relaxed back into the pillows, enjoying this seldom seen side of her; a little flirty, a little coy, and for once not knowing the answer. He looked up at the ceiling, pretending to weigh his words.

"'Like' is a very strong word."

She pinched him.

"Ow!" Taking his hand out from under his head, he trapped her in his arms and squeezed her tightly in retribution.

"Be serious," she chided.

"The very first day when you walked into the briefing room.

"Ha!" She snorted with disbelief.

"What?"

"That wasn't it."

"Yes, it was." He drew his head back defensively. "How would you know?"

"You made a joke at my expense."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did. I asked if I was late and you said that I was the intelligence analyst and that I ought to know. And then you laughed."

He frowned, her explanation of the event sounding vaguely familiar. Perhaps he had misremembered. He would never admit it to her though.

"I think you just misinterpreted something I said."

"For months after that, I got the distinct impression that you wanted to get rid of me."

"Nonsense."

"You sent me on a wild goose chase and tried to freeze me out."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

He shuffled uncomfortably, feeling exposed by her recollections. He scowled, irked that his post-coital contentment was being disturbed by tales of his earlier behaviour.

"I thought you only kept me on because of my contacts. I lived in terror that I would be sent back to GCHQ."

He pursed his lips. Damn this woman and her steel-trap memory.

"I may not have appreciated all your qualities in the beginning," he conceded, "But as you can see I have now come to my senses."

"Or lost them."

She kissed his jaw and then his lips, her body rubbing against him, the dark mood that had enveloped him magically evaporating. How could she be so singularly infuriating and charming at the same time? The bed was warm and so was she and he lost himself in the softness of her lips. He ran his hand along the curve of her back, wanting to assure her that the depth of his attraction to her spanned many years. Tell her of the times that he had been struck by her beauty, drawn to her by an indefinable force, how he had talked himself out acting on his feelings, clung to restraint like a lifeline. That in the end, she had unwound everything. Those were the memories that lingered with him; their early days were nothing more than a fog. In the intimacy of his bed, with the woman he trusted more than anyone else, another layer fell away and his curiosity matched hers.

"When did you first start to like me?"

"Oh well," she squinted as if searching for the answer in the distance. "I don't know if I can pinpoint an exact time. I think it was more of a gradual thing."

"Like a frog in boiling water?"

"Yes," she laughed. "Something like that. It might have been when you told me you were applying for the AG job and my heart stopped with the fear that I wouldn't see you every day."

He frowned, hoping that her attraction to him had been earlier, that she would have fallen for him at first sight. Ego nudged him; there had been a certain section chief as well as other young men he could not remember. He had been wise to wait and let the field be weeded out.

"That didn't stop you from being an exacting interview coach."

"I couldn't very well do a bad job of preparing you even though I wanted you to stay."

She had wanted him to stay. He smiled at that.

"I would have taken you with me." He pulled her in close, kissing her forehead.

She rested her head back on his chest and they lay in silence. He absently played with her hair, his fingers encountering a knot near the back of her head, the strands tangled by the friction of their lovemaking.

"Thank you for the scotch."

"I thought it would be safe, that the message would be correctly interpreted."

"Bit of a risk putting it in my desk."

"Thought you'd appreciate it."

"How did you do it?"

"Oh, I've learned a few tricks on how to fly under the radar."

He was struck by the notion that she understood his need for risk, and that perhaps she too found an illicit thrill in evading the trap of potential discovery.

"I have something for you."

He rolled her onto her back, pausing to plant a kiss on her lips before he reached across her to the bedside table. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a book and presented it to her.

"Like I said, it was here waiting for you."

She took the volume, her eyes widening as she read the title. "Metamorphoses." She ran her finger along the binding, tipping it down to her nose and inhaling. "Nothing will ever replace an old book." She opened it up, flipping through the first few pages, stopping to read the first line aloud. "I want to speak about bodies changed into new forms."

He leaned on his elbow and looked down at her, cataloguing the changes that had occurred in her. Faint lines of loss gathered near her eyes, the furrow of her brow ran a little deeper, but he knew that it was her inner being that had altered the most. Her stumbling naivety had been cast off, replaced by wisdom and intuition, her inner core fashioned into steel, hardened and revealed. Gone was the girl that entered the briefing room, replaced by the woman that now lay before him.

"These engravings are exquisite," she murmured.

He ran his hand under the sheet placing it on her stomach, not wanting her to become so engrossed in the book that she would forget about him.

"Some of these pictures are a bit risqué, Harry."

"And thus the reason why I held back from giving it to you."

"The Greeks aren't known for their subtlety, are they?"

The words pricked his memory, the vision of her in a white coat with a fur collar rising before him - a conversation about the gods and Ovid. Was that the first time she had intrigued him? Time circled in on itself, but he was not in the same place, he was not that man anymore. He had changed, awoken, come into his renaissance. He placed his fingers on the book, gently closing the cover and removing it from her hands.

"I was reading that," she protested.

He carefully deposited the book on the bedside table and pulled the chain on the lamp, plunging them into darkness.

.

Flipping through the pages with annoyance, Harry wondered why he even bothered to read the morning paper. The tripe that passed for journalism these days; it was all gossip and think pieces. But he did it faithfully, wanting to keep abreast of what was being fed to the masses. A foot kicked him under the table. He lowered his paper and looked at the culprit.

"Sorry," she murmured. "Just crossing my legs."

His kitchen table, so rarely used, rocked as she placed her elbow on it. His morning routine usually consisted of a hurried cup of coffee as he leant against the counter; he didn't have the luxury of sitting down. It had only come about that morning because she had suggested that they draw out their time together as long as possible. She did not look up at him but kept her focus on her section of the paper, one hand fiddling with the charms of her necklace, the other hand wielding a pen. Was she ever without a pen?

"What are you doing?"

"The crossword," she answered.

"In pen?"

"Don't you?" She looked up at him innocently.

The paper snapped as he straightened out the business section, using it to underscore his withering look. He couldn't tell if she was asking him in seriousness or merely ribbing him. She paid no attention but went back to solving the puzzle. He grimaced. She was probably doing the cryptic crossword. What on earth did such an intelligent woman see in him? Fresh from his shower, her hair curled slightly damp around her neck, she looked incredibly young. There were times when they were still awkward around each other, but that morning she looked very much at ease in his tiny kitchen. He would encourage her to spend more time at his place. He could offer her a space in his medicine chest. Was it too soon for a drawer? He had inadvertently left a few things at her place. There was an unaccounted for tie that he suspected lay hidden under her bed.

"Did you have enough to eat?" He glanced at the half-eaten toast on her plate.

"Yes, thank you."

She stretched her arm across the table, and he thought she was going to take his hand, but it was only to reach for his phone.

"Look at the time. I've got to get going."

Her chair scrapped on the tiles as she pushed it back, her tread as soundless as a cat as she padded across the floor. He hurriedly folded up his newspaper and took a quick sip of his coffee.

"Wait a minute and I'll give you a lift," he called after her.

"Don't be ridiculous. We can't go in together." Her voice floated back to him from down the hall.

"I'll drop you off the block before." Gathering up their few dishes, he deposited them in the sink, glancing out the window as the cutlery clattered against the stainless steel. "Look at it outside, it's pouring."

Heading down the hall, he reached the front door to find her putting on her coat.

"I've got an umbrella." She fished the object out of the stand, an errant rod catching on her skirt.

"It's broken,' he pointed out. "Take mine."

"You might need it." She tucked the broken rib back into the fabric and held it up to him in triumphant. "See, its fine."

He mumbled under his breath, silently cursing her stubborn streak that always arose whenever he tried to look after her.

"Did you say something?"

She handed him the umbrella to hold while she donned her boots. As she struggled with the zipper, he inspected the umbrella, looking at the incongruous flower covered fabric, his lips pursed in a moue of distaste. When would she learn the uniform for spooks was black?

"Your hair is still wet."

She touched it absently. "Oh well, it's raining. It won't matter."

Picking up her bag, she rummaged through it and pulled out a tube of lipstick along with a tiny mirror. He watched fascinated as she transformed her mouth with three quick strokes.

"I can't kiss you now."

"Sorry."

She wrapped her scarf around her neck and then held her cheek up towards him, offering it up in place of her lips. He planted a soft kiss on it.

"Aren't you going to do up your coat?"

"Stop fussing over me, Harry. It's a wonder I've survived for so long."

"Yes, it's a wonder."

He placed his hands on her hips and drew her close. Their eyes met and she smiled at him. His heart melted. If he spent too much time with this woman he would be completely stripped of his armour. She kissed his chin and then used her thumb to wipe away the imprint left by her lipstick.

"Don't forget to put on a tie." She pulled out a pair of gloves from her bag. "I think you forgot one at mine."

He raised his hand to his collar realising that he was indeed missing a tie. "I think I did."

"I'll see you in a bit then."

"Right."

He opened the door, the sound of rain instantly invading the vestibule. A car drove past, displacing a wave of water as it sliced through a puddle. She gingerly stepped out into the rain, stopping when the umbrella refused to open.

"Stupid thing." Her fingers, impeded by gloves, struggled with the release mechanism.

"It's not too late to change your mind," he shouted through the rain.

She didn't answer, his voice swallowed up by the weather. She took the few steps down to the pavement only to be caught short when a gust of wind swept along and threatened to turn the umbrella inside out. She clutched at the broken side and held it in place. He waited for her to look back but she carried on, trotting down the street at a half run. It was better not to look back. Spies never looked back. Suddenly aware of his exposed position, he quickly closed the door. Spies also never lost the feeling that they were being spied upon. He leaned back against the door, the house eerily quiet without her presence. He could get used to the bustle of her in his house. He let out a contented hum. It was a morning extraordinary in its ordinariness. Everything had fallen into place. Of course, the world would fall apart once he reached work, but the world could wait a few minutes longer.


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N - One more chapter after this. Thank you for continuing along._

 _._

Chapter 23 - Life in a Different Direction

The car inched slowly along, caught in the tangle of late afternoon traffic; the rush hour before the rush hour. Harry rested his hand on the steering wheel, uncharacteristically patient under the circumstances, taking advantage of the opportunity to spend a few more minutes in Ruth's company. She looked out the window, distracted, her fingers worrying at the fringe of her scarf. The engine of her mind whirred; he could practically smell the fumes of her thoughts as they churned. He knew exactly what she was thinking. True to form, she had not heeded his advice and laid the matter of Mik Maudsley to rest. In the past, her tenaciousness had been an asset but he was concerned her need to find the answers would prove a liability.

"If you're not careful," he observed, "You're going to pull that scarf apart."

Indignantly, Ruth sat up in her seat, immediately releasing the scarf and flattening it down with the palm of her hand. She craned her neck, stretching to look at the traffic in front of them.

"For the record, I do not fixate."

Harry suppressed a smile; her denial serving as an admission. "Then how is it that I hear the wheels of your mind spinning in place?"

He kept his eyes on the road but his peripheral vision told him that he was the recipient of a rather nasty look. He paid no attention but continued to scan the traffic, attempting to see past the car in front of them, trying to ascertain why they were crawling at such a glacial pace. Ruth let out a long sigh.

"If they didn't know before, they know now."

"What do they know?" Harry glanced at her, confused, thinking that she was still talking about Cotterdam.

"That there's something happening between us."

"Ah," he murmured, as it dawned on him that she was talking about the team. "You think they know because I'm giving you a ride home?"

"No. Because you tried to get in the same pod as me."

"I was distracted." He peered ahead, gauging the distance to the next side street, calculating if he could drive part of the way along the pavement. "I do recall you sitting in my chair this morning, an act which might signify a certain...familiarity."

She didn't respond, choosing to ignore him. When he had walked onto the Grid earlier that day, he had found it mildly irritating that she was sitting in his chair. Admittedly, he had also found it strangely arousing and a little endearing - but then again, she always stirred conflicting emotions within him. Would any other office have dared to sit at his desk? It had been a complete reversal of their dynamic and a far cry from the woman who had first stepped onto the Grid. He couldn't help but admire her audacity. He was proud of her nerve, proud that she had finagled a copy of the Cotterdam inquiry before its public release, proud that she was his. He flashed another glance at her unsure what to make of her silence. He reached across the seat and took her hand. He was in his car; he could do what he liked.

"They still might not know," he consoled her. "Is it so outside the realm of possibility that I would care enough about an officer that I would offer them a drive home?"

She gave a mild snort of derision. She was right; he would not have offered the service to anyone else.

"I just wish it could be just between us a little bit longer," she said. "Before the gossip, and knowing looks and sly smiles."

He squeezed her hand gently before releasing it.

"I went looking for you earlier; before I went to speak with Mace."

"I stepped out."

"You were still gone when I got back."

"I needed some fresh air. To think." Her hands returned to her scarf, the threads tangling tightly around her fingers.

Harry frowned. She was so easy to read.

"Where did you go?" he asked, treading lightly.

"Oh, I walked around the block."

"Ruth," he cautioned, the ambiguity of her answer stoking his curiosity.

"Where are all these people going in the middle of the afternoon?" she asked, changing the subject. "I guess it's true no one has nine to five jobs anymore."

She was such a terrible liar, at least to him. He knew her tells.

The turnoff to the side street finally arrived and Harry swung on to it, travelling for a few car lengths until he saw the entrance to an alley. Steering with the palm of his hand, he directed the car down a small laneway ignoring Ruth's look of curiosity. He stopped the car and flicked the gear shift into park, the engine still running softly. He turned the full force of his attention to his analyst.

"Where did you go?"

"Why did you stop? Are we being followed?"

"Answer my question." Gone was the affable tone of a companion, in its place was the steely demeanour of a Section Head.

She looked at him defiantly and opened her mouth only to close it again. She took a deep breath.

"Promise you won't get mad."

His mind race with the thousand and one infractions she might have committed for her ask for such an assurance.

"What did you do?"

"Malcolm has a contact at the mortuary," she blurted out, peeling off the plaster quickly. "I went there to take a look."

"At Maudsley?" Harry asked in disbelief, stunned by her admission.

"There's something I'm missing, something he wanted me to see."

"Christ, Ruth."

Harry sunk back into his seat, sorting through the implications of such an action, calculating the potential fallout if her infraction was discovered.

"I was investigating."

"I have trained officers for that.'

"I'm a trained officer," she protested.

"Not in the field." He gripped the steering wheel, directing his frustration at it in an attempt to curtail his anger at her. "Oliver asked us to tread lightly, not make any waves."

"I was careful," she countered defensively. "And since when have you done what Mace tells you?"

"Did you find anything?"

"No, I-"

"Good." He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel ruminating that the situation was not totally lost. He would get Malcolm to go in and scrub any CCTV footage that might have caught her misdeeds. "Don't insert yourself any further into this investigation. You were already at Maudsley's death, any other associations might give the impression of evidence tampering."

"But Maudsley chose me-"

"That's what you want to believe. You're trying to find a puzzle where there isn't one. He was bought by Acts of Truth and he felt guilty. End of story."

"You don't have to patronise me."

"I'm not."

"I'm not a child, Harry."

"I know," he conceded, silently thinking that she was certain as wilful as one. He reached up and cradled her cheek with his gloved hand, regretting that he could not feel the softness of her skin. "Darling…"

Her lips parted, surprised at his use of the endearment. Such sentimentalities had never passed between them. It had come unbidden from a foreign part of his mind, a place seldom visited. He would have to watch himself.

"Neither of us got any sleep last night. We're both exhausted. What you've been through has been incredibly traumatic. You need to rest. In the morning you'll see things with a clearer head."

She pursed her lips, unwilling to bend to his wishes.

He leaned in and kissed her. She resisted, keeping her lips in a flat line. He pressed harder, overcome by the need to assert his will, to dominate her. His hand moved to the base of her skull, urging her to respond. She relented and opened her mouth to him. He briefly wondered if there were any cameras about, but that did not stop him from indulging in the moment. She gave a soft moan and the tempo his breaths escalated. The devil on his shoulder told him he was using their physical attraction as a means to subdue her, a tactic to stop her from investigating any further, blurring the lines between their professional and private lives. He dismissed the voice and took one last hungry kiss from her.

"Shall I come over later?" he asked.

She sat back in her seat, smoothing her hair down with her fingers, blinking as she returned to the reality of the car.

"Didn't you say we should both get some sleep tonight?"

He gave her a tight smile of agreement, cursing his earlier words. Shifting the car into reverse, he backed out of the alley and headed in the direction of her house. He would trust her.

.

A dull pain shot through his shoulder. He awoke with a start, eyes flying open, his senses immediately on alert. Where was he? He quickly sat up his back stiff, shoulder throbbing, a small groan leaving him. A faint blue light filtered through a window above his head and his eyes adjusted to the half darkness. He was in a cell. It all came back to him. The confrontation with Mace, the broken glass, Maudsley, the murder charge. His knuckles kneaded against his shoulder, muscles once torn by a bullet protesting their night spent against the wall. He had fallen asleep, slumped against the unrelenting concreted. He berated himself for his inability to stay awake. How long had he been out? Closing his eyes, he clung to the lingering vapours of his dreams, intricate weavings of memory and desire; an exercise in recollection that had descended into the half-sleeping bliss of their last night together. He ran his hand over his face, resigning himself to the fact that it would indeed be their last together. The prospect of incarceration loomed before him. His mouth turned up with a rueful smirk. He could very well be a bunkmate with Jocelyn Myers. The world was made of such ironies. The powers that be could go another route; pay him off, a foreign posting, redundancy. The dirty laundry of the service was always washed somewhere out of sight. But they would want to ensure his silence. Prison seemed the most likely outcome. Was she worth it? Yes. He would do it again, without hesitation.

He stretched out his arm, trying to lessen the ache. Where was she now? Safe at home in the comfort of her bed, the cat at her feet. Warm under her duvet, lips parted with soft breaths, brow furrowed as she puzzled out the meaning of her dreams. Skin hot to his touch, delicate beneath his fingers, the curve of her breasts fitting into his hands. He squeezed his eyes tighter as he tried to recall more details, but the scarcity of their encounters had not allowed him to catalogue all the treasures beneath her clothes. He lifted his arm, searching for the hint of her scent on his shirt. He tried to conjure it up, the unique notes that evoked her. All he could smell was bleach and institutionalised rot.

There was always the chance, the very slim hope that Adam and Ruth had come up with a plan. Dire measures had been avoided in the past.

The light in the corridor buzzed as the fluorescent tube flickered to life. The door squeaked open and Adam appeared alongside an officer from Special Branch. His blood ran cold. What had been the price tag for his freedom?

.

The metal door banged loudly behind him as it closed, announcing his presence, discretion falling victim to haste. He walked across the derelict warehouse, the floor littered with stained cardboard and rags, signs of nocturnal occupation. The weak sun filtered through a broken window pane, leaving the temperature of the interior only marginally warmer than the exterior. He rounded a pile of broken shelves and found her standing in the corner. Ruth looked up at him, eyes wide with surprise. She did not move, did not run into his arms as he had anticipated, but remained glued to the spot. His eyes ran over her face, quickly assessing her appearance, concluding that she was not hurt. Exhaustion was written on her face, dark circles beneath her eyes, her hair slightly unkempt, her hands hanging limply at her sides. There was something else about her, and he struggled to pinpoint the difference. His heart stopped. She wore black. A size too big, the coat swallowed up her tiny frame, the cuffs coming down over her hands. Whose coat was it? What did it mean? He tried to dismiss his fears, he was overreacting. For years, he had silently derided her penchant for wearing white coats he should be happy she had chosen to finally wear the right attire. He walked up to her and took her hands, a thousand questions racing through his mind. He settled on one.

"Where are your gloves?" he asked, admitting to himself that it was the least of their worries at that point.

"Where's Adam?"

"He's gone to talk to Mace."

"But that was supposed to be you."

"I had someone more important to see."

"It was supposed to be your moment...to tell him that he hadn't won. That there ideas, principals more important than just two people."

Her eyes glittered in the murky half-light, the conviction in her voice breaking through the fatigue. There was an intensity to her that he recognised, he had seen it before, in the hospital after the incident with the British Way when she had clobbered Moran. Her pupils were enormous and dark, darting between him and the wall, unseeing, not entirely focused.

"Ruth," he tugged at her hands forcing her to look at him, bringing her into the moment with him. "Ruth."

"Sorry, I haven't slept. I spent the night with Zaf." Seeing the look on Harry's face she clarified her statement. "I mean, we were moving from place to place."

She took a deep breath, her anxiety dissipating slightly. Harry massaged his thumbs over the back of her hand partly in an effort to soothe her, partly in measure to temper the apprehension that was growing within him. He wanted to hold her, get her away from the desolation of the warehouse but he didn't know how. They needed to stay invisible. Adam had said there was a plan. He needed to find out what it was.

"You photoshopped yourself into a picture with Mace."

"It was the only way to get you out of jail."

"Your career is over."

"But it worked didn't it? There will be fallout, yes?" She looked up at him with the expectant look of a child needing reassurance.

"Yes. The Defense Secretary is going to resign. The PM is caught up in it too. No doubt there will be an inquiry."

"Good. Good."

Her eyes flitted over him, her body strung tight with tension, a posture that usually heralded unwelcome news. An unease resurfaced within him; he still had no idea what the operation entailed, she had all the pieces. It was an unsettling feeling. He searched for a way to regain control over the situation.

"We need a plan to get you out of here."

"It's already taken care of. You need to go back to your office and wait for a phone call."

"Why?"

"Zaf is working out the details."

"And they are…" he prompted.

Her eyes left his, her lips moving as she tried to form the words. His mouth grew dry, and his heart accelerated, beating sideways in his chest. His field training told him what he would do if he were in her place, if he were on the run, eluding detection. He willed her not to take that path.

"I'm going underground," she whispered.

The muscle of his shoulder moved with an involuntary spasm.

"But I need you."

The intensity of his words surprised him. Selfish, he had spoken without thought. He blamed adrenaline and lack of sleep. His hands tightened possessively on hers, pulling her a step closer. He needed her on the Grid, in his life, in his bed. He squeezed her hands, oblivious that the fact that he might be hurting her, unwilling to let her go. He was completely unmoored, unsure of his position. She was his anchor. While he had been detained in a cell, an entire operation had unfolded, people in the government brought down and he no idea how it had all transpired. She had been the engine that had driven the whole scenario.

"Why did you decide all this without me?" he asked. "I could have found a way."

"There was no other way. They were always one step ahead of us.'

"I can protect you."

"No, Harry, you can't." Her voice trembled and she paused to regain mastery over it. "One of us had to be sacrificed. And you're more important than I am."

"That is not true."

The fierceness of his denial carried beyond the tiny space that they inhabited The shadows beside them stirred, and Ruth jumped in alarm. Dark forms ascended, and the flutter of wings beat through the air. They watched as birds flew around the ceiling, their own hearts rising with them, transcendent, rising for a moment from the mess of their lives. The birds finally landed on the rafters, calling out with gentle coos. Ruth let out a tiny whimper, followed by a half laugh, relieved that they were not in imminent danger. A tremor ran through her, the sudden sound of the birds having played on her already fraught nerves like a tuning fork. Giving way to impulse, Harry pulled her in, drawing her against his chest. She kept her body stiff, every muscle remaining taught with the effort to maintain control. His embrace tightened, fearing that she had become so immersed in her role that she had become immune to him.

"Oh Ruth," he kissed her temple, his words stirring her hair. His hand slid down her back, searching for the woman her knew beneath the bulk of the coat, pressing her into him. "What have you done," he whispered.

His words released a knot and she slumped against him, leaning her head on his shoulder, her mouth buried in the crook of his neck. Her lips moving against his skin as she spoke.

"Everything you taught me."

He closed his eyes and swallowed. It was retribution from the gods for his hubris, for wanting to shape her. He had created her. He had guided her, moulded her, challenged her to push her boundaries and like all creations, she had outgrown the master. When the time had come, she had followed her instincts and executed every move that he would have made. The only way for the entire section to avoid scrutiny over Cotterdam was for her to take the fall and disappear. He would have expected nothing less from any other officer.

"I can't let you go," he whispered. "There must be another way."

She did not answer but moved her lips along his jaw, finding his mouth. She wrapped her hands around the collar of his coat and pulled him closer. A fierceness invaded her kisses, her mouth moving greedily against his, tasting of danger and desperation. His arms banded around her, binding her to him. Ignited, he responded with his own fervency, his desire laced with anger at the situation, his fire threatening to consume her. Hunger rose within them, demanding more, sustenance threatened they devoured each other in the little time that was left to them. Could he have her one last time? Here, against the crumbling brick and broken pieces of their lives?

A metal clang rendered the air and they instantly drew apart, as if a knife had sliced between them. His hand found her hip and he nudged her around to stand behind him. Footsteps came closer. He drew up to his full height, shoulders back, muscles on alert ready to protect her. A figure rounded the shelves. It was Zaf. Harry's shoulders relaxed in relief.

Zaf stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, his eyes moving back and forth between the two people in front of him, taking in the scene, inferring what had just transpired and feeling suitably guilty for breaking it up. He nodded at Ruth.

"We have to get going:"

Ruth moved to walk past Harry, but he reached out and grabbed her arm. He searched her face, the futility of the situation overwhelming him. The wheels had been set in motion by someone else, they were only trying to navigate towards the least costly end. But the price for this victory was too much.

"Ruth," He searched her face but she would not look at him.

"Go back to your office, Harry." Her eyes stayed locked on his lapel, her lips quivering. "And keep fighting."

She turned, leaving his fingers to slide against the fabric of her coat as she eluded his grasp, She walked past Zaf with determined steps. The young man gave Harry one last look. No breezy come back, no cheeky remark, only remorse.

"You can't be seen together," Zaf said regretfully.

Harry nodded, training coming to the fore, emotion vanishing, his face remaining immobile. Zaf walked away, disappearing after Ruth. Footsteps echoed across the concrete floor, her heels picking up speed as they hurried toward the exit. The bang of the door resounded around the empty space. The birds, disturbed by the noise, left their perch once again and fluttered about. Harry watched them, envying their ability to move on and effortlessly find another place to roost. He ran his hand over his face. She had not said goodbye. Years ago, there had been a conversation on a bench; if she had to leave she would make time to say goodbye. He would hold her to it.

.

The boat moved along with the river, receding into the distance, becoming a blur, a dot, and then fading into nothing. Still, he remained, unwilling to leave, not ready to admit that she had sailed out of his life. If he had only given her a ride, if only he had listened to her. At what point could he have steered everything on to a different trajectory? That question could very well haunt him for the rest of his days. He was in shock, his mind functioning somewhere outside of his body. It was the only way to cope with the spiralling events of the last twenty-four hours. He had been running on adrenaline, swept along by events, too busy trying to outmanoeuvre Mace without consideration for the emotional toll that it would exact. He had weathered similar situations countless times; he would rebound, he was strong, resilient. He had lost others before her, he would lose more in the future. Over time the memory of her would fade.

His lungs searched for air. The memory of her would never leave him.

The wind whipped at his face, its icy fingers pricking at his eyes. He blinked rapidly, moisture gathering on his eyelash. A tight band constricted around his chest, hampering his breathing, leaving him unable to draw air. He swallowed. The lump in his throat stubbornly refused to move. He would not cry for her. Emotions were a weakness, fodder that could be used as ammunition. A huff escaped his lips. What did it matter now? He had broken so many of his commandments with her, what was the use of clinging to them? He had discarded layers of armour forged by years of service, he had put her above the needs of the section, and he had committed the most grievous sin of all - he had become personally involved. Deeply involved. Damn her tenacity, damn her stubbornness, damn her for wrapping her hands around his heart and taking it with her. How would he ever get it back? She had gone beyond him, out of his reach. She had joined the ranks of Tom and Zoe and Danny; the ultimate spook having made the supreme sacrifice.

The magnitude of his loss slowly settled around him like a lead cloak. He could never speak of her; she would be erased from the Section. He would not look up from his desk and be able to see her, there would be no one to barge into his office. Never again would he feel the pleasure of her skin against his. The hollowness of despair opened up inside him. God, he needed her as he needed air. How would he ever breathe again?

Drops pooled at the corner of his eye, threatening to spill over. He quickly wiped them away. He had to go on. With a supreme effort, he took a deep breath and then another. His hand balled into a fist. There was one more commandment, a mantra he had often repeated to Tom.

It's never over. Never.


	24. Chapter 24

A/N - I hope I've managed to hit the right note with this chapter. There is a tiny bit of M content. Thank you so much for staying with the story and to those of you who have taken a moment to review. It is all very much appreciated.

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Chapter 24 – Those Who Have Held True Love

It was far too cold a day to be sitting outside, but Harry was immune to the temperature. Over the past few months, he had become inured to a great many things, happiness, pain, the loss of another analyst. Steam floated up from the cardboard cup that he held in his hand. It rested it on his lap, neglected, his mind slowing down, peaking into corners that he had managed to ignore. There had not been an opportunity to sit and reflect on past events; or rather he had not given himself the time to do such, remaining instead calculatedly busy. There was no value in dwelling on what could have been. There had been times, though, in the early hours of the morning when sleep eluded him, where unbeckoned thoughts stole into his head, flashes of skin, her voice in his ear, the ache of a longing so desperate that it carved at his soul. He shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts, stopping the journey through memory before he became interminably lost. Remembering his coffee, he took a sip and looked out over the river, its course weaving out into the sea, taking everything away.

"You know that people meet in pubs too."

The voice shattered Harry's thoughts, and he looked up into the haggard face of Gary Hicks. Coat rumpled, in need of a shave, Hicks looked like he had already spent the night in a pub. He stood with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, taking one last puff before he tossed it to the pavement and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. Harry closed his eyes, wondering what had possessed him to agree to meet with this man. A known purveyor of yellow journalism, Hicks was certain to have nothing more than salacious gossip on some second-rate performer, but there was always the fleeting chance that politics or foreign affairs could be involved.

Hicks sat down on the seat next to Harry.

"Course in pubs they don't let you smoke anymore." Hicks reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a package of gum. "Been trying this stuff to help me stop."

"You said you had something for me?" Harry was in no mood for pleasantries.

Hicks patted his pockets. "What's the going rate for information these days?"

"Depends on the information."

"I've still got that Clive McTaggert story burning a hole in my hard drive. Could make a lot of money off of that."

"What if your compensation was the satisfaction of knowing you had helped your country?"

"You still using that line," Hicks snorted as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small manila envelope. "You see, I'm not entirely sure what I have here. It was sent to me but the card inside is addressed to you."

Harry reached for the envelope but Hicks held it out of his reach.

"If I'm going to be used as some sort of classified information mule, I want to be properly compensated."

"Has anything you've done ever not involved money or self-promotion?"

Hicks reflected for a moment. "No."

"We can do this one of two ways," Harry shifted in his seat. "You can give me that envelope, or I can start combing through your financials and that hard drive of yours and make life very uncomfortable."

"Do personal freedoms mean nothing to you people," Hicks mumbled, begrudgingly handing over the envelope over.

Placing his coffee on the bench, Harry took the envelope and opened the flap. At first glance, it looked like a picture but on further inspection turned out to be a postcard. It was a typical tourist scene, split into four quadrants filled with scenic monuments of Rome. He flipped it over. The handwriting on the other side was distinctively familiar. His breath caught in his throat. He schooled his face to remain immobile. It was from her. Months of carefully curated emotion threatened to spill over, the unexpectedness of the communication knocking him sideways.

"It's some sort of code, isn't it?" Hicks asked.

Harry grimaced at the sound of Hick's voice. "Did you read this?"

"Course I did. It came in an envelope addressed to me."

Harry's shoulders lowered in resignation. As odious as it was, he could not fault her for using Hicks, he was an entity known to both of them and a clever way of making sure he received the postcard. He slipped the card back into the envelope, his bland expression giving no hint as to its meaning.

"Is it valuable?" Hicks asked.

Immensely, Harry conceded silently. To Hicks, he shrugged his shoulders. "Just a standard communiqué from one of my officers in the field."

"Standard?" Then why did they send it through me?"

"Perhaps they knew that we had an association and that you could be trusted."

The comment elicited another snort from Hicks. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Harry. Shaking his head, Harry declined and refrained from commenting that Hick's was already chewing a nicotine substitute. Hicks lit up a cigarette. The smoke filled Harry's nostrils, reminding him of another lifetime.

"Perhaps instead of a monetary reward," Harry conceded, "I can find a suitably valuable piece of information on a junior minister in exchange for all your trouble."

"I'll hold you to that." Hicks took a long drag. "How's Ruthie?"

Harry inhaled slowly, having anticipated the question.

"She's left." He would leave it at that.

"Really?" He gave Harry a sideways look of disbelief. "She seemed born to be a spook."

Harry searched Hicks' face trying to ascertain if the reporter was fishing or truly had no idea what had happened to Ruth. Hicks could smell a cover-up and he leaned into Harry.

"You know, I thought you and she had something going on."

"No."

Hicks opened his mouth to ask another question but the look on Harry's face shut him down.

"I gotta go," Hicks proclaimed as he stood up. "The news never sleeps and neither do I." He cocked his head in a knowing manner, a sly smile on his lips. "Tell Ruthie I said hello."

Harry let Hicks walk away. The man had his suspicious but Harry would not confirm them with more denial. It might lead to the explanation of her death, and that was a hole he did not want to go down with a reporter. The figure of Hicks receded into the distance and Harry returned to the postcard examining it in more detail. He flicked the corner of the postcard, his nail looking for an edge to pull back. There was nothing. He flipped it over. It contained two Latin phrases - one, suitably noble in sentiment about the people being the higher law, and the second, a little more personal. _Quos amor verus tenuit, tenebit_. He had an inkling of what it meant, something about love, but he would have to double check the translation. Between the two quotes was her cryptic phrasing. _Grand tours are less fun alone_. The memory of their dinner came rushing back him, an evening full promise and mutual longing. They had playful argued over the greatest metropolitan city and then he had mentioned his desire to go on a Grand Tour. His finger tapped absently on the card as he searched for the cities he had listed. Paris, Madrid, Rome. The postcard was from Rome – was that a clue? He would do some digging, a little judicious prying, off the record of course. He placed the envelope in his breast pocket and walked away beset with a sense of purpose he had not felt in months. The coffee was left on the bench cold and forgotten.

Snow fell, whirling down from the sky in a fragile dance, so delicate it at times floated back up. Harry raised his shoulders up to his ears and dug his hands deeper into his pockets as he stamped his feet for warmth. It was a foreign cold, not the bone-chilling dampness to which he was accustomed, but more akin to being wrapped in a blanket of ice. Scanning the street, he leaned back against the doorway of a closed shop, the atmosphere of the city so different from when he had haunted its streets many years ago. There had been a wall and with it an ever-present threat, he spies haven that was the cold war. On secondment from Six, away from his young family, he had been full of bravado and impervious to risk, flaunting the immortality of youth. Where had that man gone? He had returned once, along with the masses to see the wall torn down. He had brought Catherine, determined that his daughter should bear witness to such a historic event. Nothing lasts forever, least of all the makings man.

Drawing his hand over his eyes, he roused himself and squinted at the building across the street. The subtle exterior of the hotel did nothing to announce itself, preferring to blend in with the facades of the stores around it. It was this discretion that had caught his eye.

The postcard had rested in his desk drawer until he had finally come to the conclusion that she would not send it from the city where she was staying. She would go to the least expected place, one known only to him. Once he had decided on the city, he trawled hotel listings, searching for a place that possessed the qualities that she would find attractive. It was all highly subjective, without an ounce of imperial evidence, purely on a hunch. If she were doing it, she would have figured out where he was in half the time, and been twice as certain of her choice. Propelled by instinct, he had planned the trip under the radar – in and out and no one would ever know. It had been a gamble to come, and if he were truthful, it was a nod to the recklessness of his youth, perhaps a desire to visit it one last time.

A group of patrons exited the hotel, laughing as their footing slipped on the snow. On his side of the street, a man hurried past and gave Harry a sidelong look. How long could he stand on that spot without attracting attention? He had a sudden craving for a cigarette, an old ruse that afforded the perfect excuse for loitering, the nonchalance of striking a match and casually observing. Alas, like many other spying tricks, it was a relic of the past.

A lone figure appeared, walking towards the hotel, and Harry instantly stood up. There was quickness to the steps, the way the hand held the collar up around the throat. It was her, he was certain. His mouth opened with the impulse to call her name, but he quickly closed it and returned to his senses. The figure slipped into the hotel. He stopped himself from bounding across the street, taking a moment to turn up his collar and check his surroundings. He walked at a moderate pace; giving the impression that he fully belonged there.

The warmth of the hotel enfolded him, and Harry paused to dust off the snow that had accumulated on his shoulders. The interior was covered with a dark wood panelling, an antithesis to the modernity of its unassuming exterior. Wing backed chairs dotted the room, the walls behind them lined with rows of books. The hum of gentle conversation came from a small bar, and further down the lobby, he could see a sign hailing a smoking lounge. He smiled. A marriage of worlds; he would have to return here one day. Even though the atmosphere of the lobby was conducive to loitering, he thought it prudent to avoid scrutiny. A lift was situated around the corner from the front desk, but Harry chose instead to head toward a door with a picture of a staircase. The door swung shut behind him and he looked up the steps, the faint tap of boots echoing above his head. Stay between floors three and six, not too high not too low, accessible by stairs, standard tradecraft. A door creaked open and closed. Third floor. Harry quickened his pace up the stairs, arriving at the third floor slightly breathless. His heart beat rapidly in his chest, whether from exertion or nerves he wasn't certain. He cracked opened the door into the hall and saw her standing a few suites down. After so many months, the sight of her shook him, and he wavered. Was this the right thing to do? Should he just let her go? There was still time for him to walk away, let her carry on with her new life. She was focused on the lock of her door, the key car refusing to cooperate. She fumbled with the plastic, dropped it onto the floor, and then knelt down to retrieve it. A memory stirred within his, endearing, awkward, it called to him. With the faintest of treads, he walked quickly down the hall coming to stand beside her. She looked up with a start, her breath hitching with surprise. He put a finger to his lips. He extracted the keycard from her hand and with one swift move, opened the door and ushered her into the room, making sure that the door was closed securely behind them.

They stood in the darkness, her breath coming in short bursts as she attempted to make sense of his unexpected appearance.

"You shouldn't be here," she whispered.

"I know."

"Have I been cleared?"

"Not yet."

"You were supposed to let me go, Harry."

He slipped his arm around her waist and he drew her close, his mouth hovering over hers, torn between desire words of explanation and desire. He should explain himself, give her a moment to adjust to his arrival, but he couldn't. He found her lips and folded his arms around her in a fierce embrace.

"Why did you come?" she asked, breaking the kiss.

"I didn't have enough time before you left."

"To what?"

"To memorise you."

His lips moved along her cheek, finding the soft spot below her ear, the scent of her so achingly familiar and yet layered with a subtle difference. A new shampoo? Lotion? Or perhaps it was the air of independence. He held back a fraction, realising that she was now completely outside his sphere of influence. She did not have to defer to his wishes, or follow his orders; she could act of her own free will. Did she even need him anymore? Unsettled by the thought, he searched for a hint of reassurance.

"I got your postcard."

"I wasn't sure if I should send it," she said. "I wanted you to know that I was alright."

"Was that the only reason?" He had spent weeks solving the puzzle of her location, living on the hope that he would see her again, but at the moment of discovery, he found himself pricked with insecurity.

She closed her eyes, a soft smile playing on her lips. "I didn't want you to forget about me."

As if he ever could.

She ran her finger along the lapel of his overcoat and continued. "And I think in the back of my mind I wanted you to find me."

He kissed her forehead, exhaling a thankful moan, relieved that he had made the right decision. She buried her head in his neck.

"How long can you stay?"

"A night."

"Is that all?"

"I might be missed."

She stepped back and nodded stiffly, her mind adjusting the shortness of their rendezvous.

"Close the curtains before you turn on the light," he cautioned.

She did as he suggested and pulled the drapes before tuning on a small lamp. The room was small and neat, a giant bed dominating the space. She shrugged off her coat revealing a dark shirt and jeans. Harry frowned. It was an ensemble completely foreign to him, adding yet another element that differentiated her from the Ruth that he knew. Her hair was cut shorter and tucked behind her ears giving her a gamine quality. He had expected her to be wane and gaunt, as depleted as he was by their enforced separation, but she looked remarkably young and rested. It should come as no surprise that she could function without him, but he needed to know that she was still his. She placed her coat on a chair, choosing to remain standing by the window, her head tilted expectantly. His fingers curled and flexed, itching with the desire to reclaim her.

"Should I order up some room service?" she asked. "Are you hungry?"

Keeping his eyes on her, he slowly pulled off one glove and then the other, carefully laying them on a small table. She had asked the question so innocently. Surely by now, she should know he would always be a wolf.

"Yes," he answered. "I haven't eaten since you left."

He held out his hand, silently beckoning her to him. She crossed the room, and he smiled satisfied that he still carried sway over her. He drew her in, his fingers splayed possessively across her back, his mouth next to her ear.

"Have you eaten?"

"No," she answered breathlessly, fully understanding the double meaning of his question. "I was waiting for you."

His hand rose to the opening of her shirt, and she watched his face, mesmerised as he undid each button. He slipped a hand beneath the fabric, his thumb resting on the notch of her clavicle as his fingers traced over the swell of her breasts. Her breath quickened the rise and fall of her chest pushing against his hand.

"This isn't going to make things any easier," she softly lamented, the bottom falling out of her voice.

His hand paused and his chest constricted. She was right. But nothing would ever make it any easier.

"I miss you," he whispered. "I dare not stand still for fear that the loss of you will take me under." The words came without premeditation, an admission he had not even acknowledged to himself.

"Shhh," she soothed him. "Don't think about that. Be here with me now."

His lips tasted salt on her cheek and he chastised himself for his lapse into despair. He must take better care with the bubble they had created. His fingers dug into her sides, assuring him of her reality - that she was not an illusion come to him in his dreams. Need overwhelmed him and he peeled back her shirt searching for the woman he knew. Urgent hands ran over her, coming to rest on the dip of her waist, the exact arc of the curve imprinted on his palm. He released his hold on her momentarily as she struggled to relieve him of his overcoat. Mouth on his, her fingers bunched up in the fabric of his jumper.

"What is this?" She tugged at the wool. "I don't know what to do if you not in a suit."

"I'm sure you'll figure something out."

She smiled at him and he was suspended in a fleeting moment of happiness. He wanted more. He would find it in her. Words fell away along with their clothes. A flurry of belts and zippers, shoes and shirts. Fabric slipped over skin, snaps releasing, breaths coming fast. Through the haze of lust, his hands told him there was nothing left to reveal. How had it happened so quickly? He had planned to unwrap her slowly, and savour her like a fine vintage. Standing by the side of the bed, he pressed her naked form against his, skin burning with anticipation. He had to slow down. He pressed his forehead against hers.

"I need to -" he panted, attempting to reign in his passion.

Without heeding his words, she pulled him onto the bed, and his will to slow down the seduction vanished. Hand between her legs, he lost himself in her heat, her moans tantalising against his ear. His mouth returned to spots of secret pleasure known only to him, and he marked the flesh, tasting her, making her his. Flushed beneath him, she sighed and whimpered, shuddering with waves of contentment. Rolling across the sheets, he let her rise above him, illuminated perfection. She drew him in, her body a sinuous curve moving against him with hypnotic rhythm. His hands trailed over her breasts, her waist, her thighs, until she bent over him, the angle of her body leaving him breathless. Her lips brushed across his skin, breath hot, and he struggled to hold on. Fingers digging into tender flesh, he stilled her hips, biting his lip, control slipping away. Leading the dance, she moved onto her back, open and inviting. His weight on her, heart accelerating with each movement, he gave in, thrusting deeper. Let this last forever. Legs wrapped around him, she rose in consort, her body fire against his. The reward of release was tantalisingly near. Panting, his mouth pressed against her neck, he lost her name in one final groan.

He could never let her go.

.

Harry leaned back against the headboard, all memory of the cold dispelled, his body deliciously warm. She sat in front of him, wrapped in a blanket, nibbling on a piece of cantaloupe. A tray littered with the remnants of smoked salmon sat on the bedside table, along with a bottle of wine. Ruth reached over and topped up her half-empty glass. She took a sip, her eyes finding Harry's over the rim of the glass.

"This is incredibly decadent."

"I think we deserved it."

Her leg stretched out from beneath the blanket, and he grabbed it before she could tuck it back in. Her calf fit in the palm of his hand, just as he remembered. He massaged the muscles as he studied her skin.

"You've gotten some sun."

"I don't know why I left it."

He ran his hand up and down her leg, fingers sneaking under the blanket towards her thigh.

"Because Berlin was the last city on my list."

She smiled at him. She couldn't know the ghosts of lovers past that haunted the city, nor the deeds from operations that sat on his conscious. He wiped them away with a sip from his own glass.

"Where will you go next?" he asked.

"Some place warm."

"Wise decision." He rolled the wine around in his mouth, weighing the next question but infinitely curious. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Oh, the usual," she responded lightly. "Galleries, museums."

"It sounds like a holiday."

"No." She placed her glass back on the side table and bowed her head, a curtain of hair falling across her face. "It's far from being a holiday."

Setting down his glass, he reached for her hand and held it tightly in his grasp. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and haunted, knowing the answer before she asked the question.

"Will I see you again?"

His thumb moved in slow circles over her palm. He did not know what the future held, how large the net would be spread during the inquiry into the first Cotterdam inquiry. The wheels of justice were slow, and government lead justice even slower. It could be years. Curtailing his usual bluntness, he looked at her kindly.

"Will you live your life?"

"Is that a question or a suggestion?" She tried to smile but it was too much of an effort.

He tugged at her hand but she resisted. He threaded his fingers through hers, and brought her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.

"True love will hold on to those whom it has held."

Her face softened as she recognised the translation from the Latin she had written and she gave a gentle sigh.

"Come here," he said huskily, "And let me memorise you."

He pulled her into his chest and started his study with the curve of her shoulder.

.

The room was quiet, only the faint light from the hall stealing in beneath the door. With the utmost care, Harry pulled on his trousers, hoping to be quiet but was thwarted by the jangle of his keys. He paused to look over at the bed, worried that he had disturbed her. She remained sleeping, her brow uncharacteristically smooth, one shoulder expose beneath the coverlet, hair dark against the pillow. He put on his shirt, fumbling with the buttons in the dimness. He didn't want to risk taking a shower though the idea of having one with her was infinitely appealing. There would be time to freshen up when he got to back Thames House. He wanted to let the scent of her linger on his skin as long as possible.

"I'm not asleep, you know."

He jumped with a start at her words. Her eyes were still closed but there was a soft smile on her lips.

"I didn't want to wake you."

"What are you doing?" She turned on the bedside lamp and squinted at her phone. "It's so early."

She raised herself onto one elbow, the sheet slipping enticingly down her breasts. The siren call of the bed grew infinitely louder, the temptation to take off his clothes a crawl back into the warm bed with her quickly rising. He closed his eyes. He couldn't. There was no guarantee that he could steal any more time without drawing attention to his absence. He finished dressing.

"I have to go."

"Wait a minute, and I'll-"

"No, stay there." He walked over to the bed and sat down beside her. "I want to remember you like this – warm and inviting. Not some hurried kiss on a cold dock."

She sat up, hair tousled, the sheet tucked around her torso. He smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek. She looked at him, into him, as only she could. He bent his head, lips against hers, intending to bestow a soft kiss. Her arms wound around him, her lips demanding more. He relented, putting all of himself into the kiss, and in turn drawing everything from her. His fingers stole across her soft skin, trailing down the smooth curve of her back.

Leave now or you never will.

He pulled away swallowing hard, calling on years of training, knowing that her safety depended on remaining a ghost. He stood up and with a quick movement crossed to his jacket. Without looking back, he walked through the door. He left without saying goodbye.

It wasn't goodbye. Somehow, they would meet again.

The cold of the street rushed to greet him as he left the hotel and he drew his coat tighter. The snow lay undisturbed covering the street, hiding all tracks except for his. A world suspended in the predawn quiet. The silence was broken by the bell of a trolley as it clambered past. Sleepy occupants, bathed in its yellow light, en route to their ordinary lives. She could lead one without him, a normal existence.

His shoes crunched softly on the snow, and with each step, a wall formed around his heart. It was not the armour that he had once worn, it was not meant to deflect. This armour was erected to keep something in - a feeling. Words tumbled around in his head as he searched for a way to describe it; loyalty, bravery, sacrifice. It was more than that - fragile in its parts but infinitely stronger as a whole. There must be a word. She would know, the woman who did her crosswords in pen. The sky brightened, kissed with an almost imperceptible light, the winter sun peaking low on the horizon. There must be a word for everything that he had asked of her, for the only thing that he could give in return. His heart filled with thoughts of her and for a brief moment, sadness evaporated, leaving behind an incredible lightness of being. His chest expanded with the thought that she meant more to him than life and happiness. He raised his head to the vast canopy of the sky and stopped, wanting to hold onto the sensation as long as he could. He blinked. Finally, he knew the word.

Devotion.


End file.
